


Of Stags & Constellations

by UchihaBloodline



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, M/M, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Tattooed Draco, room sharing, sectum sempra scars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 05:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 65,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11890575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UchihaBloodline/pseuds/UchihaBloodline
Summary: “Where things grow, there is hope. All that heals has hope. Icelandic.” He supplied. “A few months ago, whenever I stared at it I wanted to light my forearm on fire, coat it with Firewhiskey and cast an Incendio, because no other spell or charm worked to make The Mark go away. But then I thought, I’d be letting him win that way, wouldn’t I?” He gave a breathy chuckle. “By scarring my skin, I’d be pleasing him. It’s what he would have wanted, to make me suffer, isn’t it? He’d want to have that power beyond the grave. So I thought- I thought tattooing over it would be a good way of leaving the war behind, while still acknowledging it. Flowers grow and bloom, where things grow there’s hope, the skin would heal from the tattoo, all that heals has hope."





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Oh wow, what can I say? I’ve been working on this story for months, it’s unbelievable that it’s finally being published! This is my first long Draco/Harry story, so bear with me, please.
> 
> I’d like to thank my absolute lovely Betas,madeoficeandfire and annegirlblythe, for being absolutely brilliant and helping bring this work to life, I don’t know what I would have done without the pair of you, so thank you thank you thank you from the very bottom of my heart. You can also find both of them on tumblr: madeoficeandfire and harryjamesheadcanons, respectively!
> 
> At last, please review!
> 
> Love, Nhur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter and all its characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I do not claim any form of ownership of these characters or the original work.

_ “Cruci –” _

_ “SECTUMSEMPRA!” bellowed Harry from the floor, waving his wand wildly. _

  


_ Blood spurted from Malfoy’s face and chest as though he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the waterlogged floor with a great splash, his wand falling from his limp right hand. _

  


_ “No –” gasped Harry. _

  


_ Slipping and staggering, Harry got to his feet and plunged toward Malfoy, whose face was now shining scarlet, his white hands scrabbling at his blood-soaked chest. _

  


_ “No – I didn’t –” _

  


_ Harry did not know what he was saying; he fell to his knees beside Malfoy, who was shaking uncontrollably in a pool of his own blood. _

  


_ Harry’s hands shook as he tried desperately to control the bleeding, he searched his brain restlessly attempting to remember a healing spell that could fix this, but it was as if he’d forgotten everything he’d ever learned. He thought bitterly that perhaps he should have joined Hermione in the library more often. Perhaps if he had listened to her more, period. He would have disposed of the book and he wouldn’t have learned the spell and used it without knowing its effect. He was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of Malfoy coughing up blood. _

  


_ The floor around them was soaked now. _

  


_ “Malfoy, no- please.” He pleaded, blinking away the blurriness in his vision. Was he still wearing his glasses? Why couldn’t he see? Why couldn’t he move? _

  


_ “Harry.” A distant voice cut through the sound of pouring water and Draco’s quick takes of breath. He shook his head, begging himself to focus before it was too late. Draco’s impossibly pale skin was turning blue. _

  


_ “Harry!” He looked up to find the source of the voice, maybe they would be able to help, Malfoy was dying, Harry had killed him. Harry had killed Draco Malfoy. He saw no one, they were alone in the bathroom. Where had Myrtle gone? Why wasn’t she helping? _

  


_ Malfoy took a shuddering breath and gasped, his body twitched with it, making more blood pour out of the slashes on his chest. He cried in agony. _

  


_ There was so much blood. Malfoy had lost so much of it already, the water around them was a violent red color. His pants were soaked. He lifted a pale hand, reaching for his face, but it fell limp to his side before he could touch him. His eyes stared at the ceiling unblinkingly, the focus in them gone, then he went still. _

  


_ “Malfoy, Draco, no!” Harry screamed. _

  


_ “HARRY!” _

  


—

  


Harry came awake and blinked once, twice, adjusting his eyes to the brightness of the room. His heart was beating wildly in his chest.

  


“Harry, are you okay?” He looked around, confused for a moment, where was he? His green eyes fell into Hermione’s concerned, warm stare.

  


“You were having a nightmare,” she explained, her hand was stroking his sweaty hair out of his face. Realization hit him immediately and he sighed in relief, it had been a dream, Malfoy hadn’t died.

  


“Bloody hell, mate. We didn’t know what to do, you kept twitching.” Ron’s voice cut through the moment and he looked to his left, his friend was sitting across from him, his long legs stretched out and brushing against Harry’s. Harry felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. Hermione glared at Ron, then turned to him again, her gaze softened immediately.

  


Harry couldn’t dwell too much on the absolute humiliation of what he might have screamed, of what they might have heard. He was too busy willing his body to stop shaking. Hermione was still staring at him expectantly, he could practically see the gears turning in her head as she tried to figure out what he was thinking.

  


“Er, it’s nothing.” His voice came out thick and raspy, foreign to his own ears “I just had a bad dream, is all,” he continued, sitting up straight and adjusting his clothes.

  


“About Malfoy?” Ron asked, his brow raised. Harry felt his face heat up again, he hoped his friends would attribute it to the nightmare and not to the current situation at hand. Hermione cast her second glare at Ron.

  


“Yeah,” Harry licked his lips. “He was torturing someone and I couldn’t stop him,” he lied. He couldn’t tell him what he’d actually seen, because even Ron would see right through it, Hermione would immediately think that he cared about Malfoy’s life enough to dream about it, that the guilt of having almost killed Malfoy kept him awake at night every once in a while.

  


Hermione looked at him skeptically, then sympathetically- she seemed to that a lot these days - before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his temple. Ron squeezed his knee. There was a knock on the door and Luna’s head peeked into their compartment.

  


“We’ll be at Hogwarts soon,” she chirped, smiling sweetly at the trio “You ought to change into your robes.” Her icy blonde hair was pulled into a side ponytail and she was already wearing her Ravenclaw robes, although the tie was wrapped loosely around her neck. Her curious eyes scrutinized him and she frowned.

  


“You look like you need a shower, Harry. Should I cast a cleaning charm on you?” She asked, already pulling out her wand.

  


“Er, yes, thank you, Luna.” She pointed her wand at him and swished it, he felt instant minty air caress his skin and dry it from the sweat that had built up on his hairline. He grinned at her.

“Thank you.”

  


“You’ve already said that,” she mused, tucking her wand in her robes and closing the door behind her. Sometimes Harry wondered about that girl. She’d spent a long time locked away at the Malfoy Manor during the war, where she was most likely tortured and surely starved. Yes, she escaped relatively unscathed, but what type of trauma could that cause? She didn’t seem much different to him, if anything, she was even quirkier than before, did she ever talk about it? Did she ever seek help? Had she been able to heal? Harry didn’t know, and he liked her, she’d been a loyal friend to him who never asked for anything in return. He was grateful for it. He would ask her someday, how she was doing, how she was coping. He promised himself he’d treat her for a butterbeer at some point during the year so they could chat. 

  


Hermione cleared her throat. “Well, she’s right,” she added sternly. “We really should put on our robes. We’re close.” She shot up from her seat and left the compartment so Ron and Harry could change in private. He almost felt like snorting was due. They lived together as fugitives for months and stayed in the same tents. Modesty was hardly an issue between them at this point.

  


Nonetheless, he quickly changed into his school uniform and sat back down, with his tie in one of his pockets, he’d put it on later. Hermione came back a while later and sat down next to Ron, already fussing about the NEWTs they were sitting this year and how important they were, he pressed his forehead against the window and focused on the sound of the train as it moved. He wondered what was in store for him this year, he’d already defeated Voldemort and was absolutely looking forward to calm and peace during his eighth year. But considering the giggles and tugs at his sleeves and photos that had been taken as he entered the train, he knew it would be anything but.

  


The first-month post war had been, for lack of a better word, exhausting. Harry had gone to so many funerals, so many memorials, given so many bloody speeches about war and sadness and honoring the dead, he’d felt like a hypocrite telling the world it was time to move on when he himself felt stuck, on a constant loop of anxiety and stress. He’d wanted to be alone desperately, but it had felt as if he was being pushed around, told what to say and when to say it, asked a couple of questions and then taken away by the Ministry.

  


He had wanted time to mourn quietly, but even that had been taken from him.

  


Then came the trials. Harry had testified for Draco Malfoy, saying how he has saved his life at the Manor even though he had known it was him, he’d also testified for Narcissa Malfoy, who had looked Voldemort in the eyes and lied to him to save her son. Whether or not they had done it because the goodness of their own hearts didn’t matter to Harry. They had saved him. Malfoy had been let off the hook with a warning, he was expected to stay on the down-low and not get himself in any trouble unless he wanted to be sent to Azkaban, Narcissa had been put on a year-long house arrest she was still serving, and she was not allowed to use magic in the meantime.

  


(Lucius Malfoy had not met the same fate, he had been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban. As he deserved, in Harry’s honest opinion. Perhaps that was the reason Malfoy hadn’t even bothered saying thank you once the trials were over, he’d caught Harry’s eye and he’d nodded curtly before being escorted out, that alone had angered Harry more than he cared to admit. He’d done his part and Malfoy couldn’t even spare him a word?)

  


After the trials and funerals were done with, Harry was met with a few weeks of peace, relatively, he’d rented out a flat  in muggle London. The space gave him a sense of serenity and anonymity that he longed for (plus, he still had no idea what to do with Grimmauld Place, other than have Andromeda and Teddy stay there). It had felt good, better than he wanted to admit. The peace and quiet of  staying at home and doing whatever he wanted, knowing there wouldn’t be hundreds of cameras and reporters outside his window when he woke up like there was in the wizarding world. Ron and Hermione stayed with him most nights of the week as well, they’d stay up and watch muggle movies together or order food, then they’d force him to go out and visit the park next to his place. It was calming, he was quickly becoming used to it. He was so grateful for his best friends, he had no idea what he’d do without them, especially on the nights where it all became too much and Harry closed on himself. On the days where he couldn’t get up from his bed or brush his teeth, Ron and Hermione were soothing words and understanding embraces.

  


He would also go to The Burrow on the weekends and have dinner with the Weasleys, but even that seemed to wear him down, the atmosphere was still mournful and devastating. Molly would lock herself in the kitchen or knit the evening away, Mr. Weasley overworked himself so he wouldn’t have too much time to think, George rarely left his room. Guilt ate Harry away at the mere sight of them. Even if they didn’t blame him it felt like his fault, it felt like he had dragged them into this and cost a mother her son and George his other half. He’d become so used to a cheerful, grinning George, that seeing him so… thin and dull, brought back feelings that he’d carefully repressed.

  


But he continued visiting, because he loved them and they were the closest thing to a family he would ever have.

  


And then came a letter from the ministry, offering him, Ron, Hermione and Neville a chance  start their Auror training without having to sit their NEWTs. 

Harry should have been delighted at this, right? 

  


Of course not..

  


The offer had completely shattered everything, every single ward he’d built around this false sense of stability.

  


Harry had spent his entire life chasing bad guys, he’d spent his entire life running away from villains that wanted him dead since he was born. Hell, he had even spent most of his adolescence looking forward to being an Auror (if he lived that long) but as he stared at the letter in his hand and the excitement on Ron’s face, he decided that no, that was exactly what he didn’t want.

  


Because for the time being, he was tired, tired of fighting, tired of chasing and tired of being chased. He wanted a chance at a normal life for now, he didn’t want the special treatment of becoming an Auror without completing his education, he wanted to be just like everyone else. He’d had enough of being the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, or whatever Rita Seeker and the Prophet deemed appropriate  to name him that week. 

  


He wanted to be just Harry.

  


“But you  _ aren’t _ ,” the look on Ron’s face had said when he’d explained how he felt about the offer. Even though he hadn’t said it out loud. The thing is, Harry knew that, he’d known it since he was eleven for crying out loud. Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t try his best to blend in for a change. He didn’t want his job handed to him on a silver platter.

  


So when he’d politely declined the offer (and so had Ron and Neville) he had received his invitation to the eighth year at Hogwarts for all those who weren’t able to receive a proper education and sit their NEWTs the year before considering the circumstances. At first he wasn’t sure he wanted to go back to the place where he’d seen his friends die, where he’d seen Remus and Tonks’ corpses, where Fred had last laugh, but Hermione was coming back and so was Ron, so he figured it was the best decision to make (and the wisest one for his future even if he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted yet. He’d told Ron he’d become an Auror by his own merit and he should do the same, but would he? He had a year to figure out whether or not that career was what he truly wanted. He just hoped his friends would stop asking him about so often).

  


A grip on his shoulder brought him out of his thoughts. “You alright mate? We just arrived,” said Ron, offering him a hand which he gladly took. He looked outside and saw the hundreds of students pouring out from the train and took a deep sigh.

  


“I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  


—

After painful minutes of tugging at his robes, hair and a few knockings of his glasses, courtesy of his new found adoring “fans,” he’d managed to get through the crowd and arrive at the Great Hall. He’d forgotten how intense this could be in his months of isolation, people were eternally grateful for what he’d done, and he appreciated the sentiment, really, but it was infuriating that they deemed it appropriate to touch him, ask him for photos and autographs and almost snatch his tie from his neck. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so he usually reacted as passively as he possibly could. Hermione, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care much for manners at this point. She wasn’t a stranger to pulling out with a wand with an annoyed “honestly!” and casting a Protego.

  


(Or the occasional hex when someone stepped over the line, Harry would snigger behind his glasses and Ron would blatantly laugh ‘She’s brilliant, isn’t she? They had it coming, mate’).

  


He took his seat at the Gryffindor table, giving a quick half-pat/half-hug to Dean, Seamus, and Neville. 

  


"We weren’t sure if you’d come back, Harry,” Seamus quipped "Me mum thought I was crazy when I told her I was coming,” he added, scratching his cheek and smiling.

  


“I don’t like leaving things half-done,” Harry lied, he couldn’t really bring himself to care about this sort of thing anymore, he wasn’t sure he ever had. This seemed enough for Seamus though, who chuckled.

  


“It’s good to see you, Harry,” Dean said, sounding like he meant it, and Harry nodded back. Looking around at the table and seeing his friends brought back a sense of home to his chest. The same feeling of excitement for the new year swished beneath his robes and he grinned. Perhaps it would be a good year. He glanced at the Great Hall, during his escape from the roaming hands, he hadn’t had time to take the renewed place in. A chill ran down his spine and he swallowed audibly.

  


Although the hall, along with the entire castle, had been renewed and looked just as good as it had (perhaps even better) there was an air to it that didn’t feel right. The four long tables were in the same position as they had always been, along with the High Table that belonged to the staff, the ceiling was a replica of the currently gloomy sky and the candles adorned it beautifully, but there was a certain coldness that crept behind the shadows, a wash of grief that hadn’t fully settled in and instead lurked in the hallways. If he waited too long without focusing on something else, he swore he would  hear the voices and screams of everyone that had died that night.

  


Harry remembered thinking that it was hard to believe the Great Hall had a ceiling instead of being a gate to Heaven. Now, seven years later, he knew better, for he’d lived hell within those very same walls. The air was heavy, the peace felt carefully crafted and sewn to hide the chaos. It felt temporary. The entire room reeked of death and utter, broken despair.

Harry wasn’t sure exactly when it happened, that his throat closed on him and the flashbacks began, of Tom’s limp body falling to the floor, of seeing Remus and Tonks’ corpses, of Fred’s final laugh and George’s screams in agony. His vision started blurring again and he couldn’t breathe, he could hear final gasps for air. He could hear his own breath, from just before a blinding green light reached out from Voldemort’s wand and surrounded him.

  


His lungs seemed to wheeze in horror, begging him for gulps of air.

  


He came back to himself after what felt like hours and a few hands were holding him steady. The tie he’d tightened on his neck before coming in was now loosened, giving him more air to breathe that he was definitely thankful for. This time he was staring at Ginny’s warm, kind eyes.

“Merlin, Harry. Are you alright?” she asked, brushing away his fringe from his face. Hermione was pressing a damp cloth to his forehead. He quickly scanned his surroundings, hoping the entire castle wasn’t focused on his breakdown. Thankfully, not even all of the Gryffindor table had noticed, perhaps he’d been quiet this time for a change. Those who had, however, probably pitied him enough to pretend they hadn’t and only sneaked occasional glances at him.

  


“Breathe, Harry. You’re shaking.” 

  


He nodded faintly and squeezed his eyes, willing his heartbeat to pipe down. How many times a day would he have one of these? How was he supposed to get through this sodding year if he was passing out every second? He felt a hot rush of embarrassment for the second time that day.

  


“Should we take you to the common room? I’m sure Headmistress McGonagall will understand,” Hermione offered, and put down the cloth. Ginny was sitting beside him now, rubbing his arm reassuringly. She had become quite accustomed to these episodes and knew how to react. Ron offered him a worried, sympathetic smile across the table.

  


“No,” he rasped out. “It’s fine. I want to watch the Sorting. It’s the last one we’ll get to see anyways, might as well enjoy it,” he added, as nonchalantly as he could. Hermione nodded unsurely, her curly hair fell on her eyes and she huffed, blowing it out of her face with her lips.

“Who do you think the new Defence Professor is? Now that Snape isn’t around...” Harry thought Seamus probably could have chosen a better time to mention Snape; Harry still wasn’t sure how to mourn that particular death and for now kept it out of his mind as much as possible. He felt Ginny’s hand grab his own sweaty palm under the table and squeeze thoughtfully. He squeezed back. She had slept the entire way and looked much more rested than he felt.

  


Ron eyed the pair meaningfully. Harry promptly ignored him, fixing his gaze somewhere else. He definitely was not ready to have this conversation again.

  


There was a clicking noise and the conversations between fellow House members halted to a stop. Headmistress McGonagall stood where Dumbledore once had. With her head high and an undeniable air of elegance, wisdom, and ferocity. She cleared her throat and glanced around the room sternly. Harry glanced at the first years, they all looked at her in awe. He remembered being in that position a few years back.

  


“Welcome to the start of a new term at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” she  began, seeming somewhat nervous and reluctant “I’m well aware, as all of you are, that a war took place less than a year ago within the walls of this castle, but I hope this year you can all continue your education and we can truly honour all the lives that were lost in the process.” Her voice faltered for a fraction of a second, but she cleared her throat and continued, “I personally believe the best way to achieve that is leaving the past in the past and striving for a better future. I cannot ask you to forget, but I hope you can work on moving forward, regardless of how long that takes.” 

  


Her eyes locked with Harry’s for a brief second, as she changed tone. “To all the eighth years returning to complete their education,” (and a silent murmur flew around the room at that) “I have decided that since your number is small enough and we really ought to promote inner house unity in this school-” Harry’s blood ran cold in his body “-that it’d be best if all of you had separate common room and dorms from the other students.” The murmurs grew into quiet protests and half shouts.

“Silence!” The candles on top of them flickered and the room went quiet again, the echoes of the voices bounced on the walls “I understand there might have been conflicts in the past. But I’ve also come to realize some groups may have been mistreated and never given the benefit of the doubt.” Her gaze flickered to the Slytherin table at that, Harry’s eyes followed without his consent.

  


He really, really wished he’d continued avoiding it.

  


The Slytherin table looked rather pathetic, a sharp contrast to the previous years in which it had stood bold and proud. A large portion of it was empty, probably because many Slytherins had transferred to different schools for the new term and only a few had come back for the eighth year. He didn’t stop to think of the other reasons they were absent, because he could only focus on one thing.

  


Draco sodding Malfoy.

  


Truth be told, Harry wasn’t sure whether or not Malfoy would have the indecency to come back. He wasn’t even aware the git was allowed to, for Merlin’s sake. But there he was against all expectations. He looked considerably thinner than Harry remembered him, if the hollowness of his cheeks was anything to go by. He was still all pointy features and sharp angles, but he had seemed to have grown into them. 

  


Malfoy looked… tired, haunted and then like a deer caught in headlights when his eyes scanned the room and landed on him. Harry quickly looked away and clenched his wand in his pocket.

His stomach churned at the mere sight of him, how dare he come back after everything he’d done? How could McGonagall allow this? He felt unexpectedly furious at her. Didn’t she know better? Did she honestly expect this to go well?

  


“Bloody hell,” cursed Ron. “Nothing good could possibly come out from locking us up with the Slytherins for a year! How is she expecting this to work? We’ll hex each other into oblivion before the house elves can finish making tomorrow’s breakfast!” Harry had to admit he completely agreed. McGonagall had spoken to him briefly to let him know the Slytherin house had been invited to finish their education as well, but… Harry hadn’t thought they actually would show up.

  


He glanced over to the Slytherin table again, allowing himself another look at Malfoy. His hair was no longer styled in the same stark way it had been during the war. Instead, it was slightly longer, although not much and looked like Malfoy just let it be instead of combing it. His fringe fell on his forehead and it curled beneath his ears.

  


Pansy Parkinson, too, was looking much thinner and much less cocky than the last time he’d seen her. Her hair was unkempt and her robes weren’t pressed. Blaise Zabini was sitting next to Malfoy, whispering something in his ear with an air of disgust, although Malfoy didn’t seem to be paying attention. Harry frowned at the intimacy of the scene, Zabini’s hand was covered by the table and the rows of students, but Harry could bet a pretty penny it was resting on Malfoy’s thigh, the whole thing left an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’d rather not think about. It was strange, not seeing Malfoy surrounded by Crabbe and Goyle, Harry knew the fate Crabbe had met, he couldn’t possibly forget it, but he had no idea where Goyle could be.

  


“Perhaps it’s for the best, Ron,” Hermione sighed. Ron looked at her like she was mad.

  


“So,” McGonagall began. “As I said, you will share a dorm and common room. Your roommates will also be changed.” There was a round of protests and groans coming from all four tables. The headmistress quickly dismissed it “I think if we want to see any change, we’ve got to initiate it. The eighth years are the oldest, first years and above students look up to you. Be a worthy example of that.” At this, the complaints died down guiltily “You will see who your roommate is once you’ve reached the common room, it’ll be hung on the wall. I truly hope this year will be better than the last one.”

  


“Without further ado, let’s begin the Sorting ceremony.” Harry’s eyes widened and he looked at Ron, who had somehow managed to look even paler beneath his freckles. Change the roommates? That was the last thing he needed. What if he got paired with someone he didn’t like? Being in the same room as Ron had always been one of his favorite aspects of the school, the thought of changing that made him feel uneasy. A quick look at the Slytherin table assured him that they were just as displeased as he felt. He was only looking for a bit of normality, for Merlin’s sake.

  


“I wonder who they’ll pair us with.”

  


Hermione’s mouth twitched in a slight frown. She looked troubled, that did nothing to calm Harry’s nerves.

  


“Bollocks,” Ginny huffed. “As if Gryffindors haven’t been through enough shit as it is, now they’ll make you guys room with the snakes, that’s just brilliant,” she said sarcastically, eyeing the mentioned table with distaste. Ron grunted in agreement.

  


Through the commotion, Harry’s eyes caught Hagrid’s, who gave him a long look and a wink accompanied with a kind smile that was oh-so-very-Hagrid. He managed to smile back and look away from the High Table before the lump in his throat thickened. He promised himself to visit him weekly.

  


-

  


The Sorting had been awkward and sad at best, everything had been somewhat decent up until the point that a young eleven-year-old girl had been sorted into Slytherin. There had been no clapping at first, not even from the Slytherin house itself, her eyes had widened in fear and her bottom lip was trembling as she walked to her respective table. Harry swore he would have been able to hear a pin drop across the room in that very same moment.

  


So obviously, because he’d always been rash and something had felt fundamentally wrong about the whole thing, he’d shot his friends a meaningful look before he started clapping, loudly.

  


Hermione had joined him after a second, Ron had looked at them like they needed a Healer effectively immediately.

  


Nonetheless, when the girl had seen she was being applauded by Gryffindors, her eyes had lit up and her shoulders had squared up.

  


At first, everyone else had been quiet, but after a few seconds the Slytherin table had joined as well, including Malfoy, and they had greeted the girl with much more enthusiasm than Harry had ever seen. Other Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs had joined as well, albeit reluctantly.

It was significantly less awkward after that.

  


-

  


“What the bloody hell was that about?” Ron hissed in Harry’s ear after they’d eaten supper and were headed to the third floor, where their dorms and the common room would be located. Harry had barely been able to half finish his serving of Treacle Tart and a few sips of pumpkin juice.

  


“I don’t know,” Harry admitted tiredly, he needed to go to bed as soon as possible. They pushed their way through the mass of students, Ron clutching Hermione’s hand as they climbed up the stairs that led to their dorms.

  


“Inter House unity,” said McGonagall firmly and walked inside once the door opened. Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes, really? That was the password, of all things? Harry could hear Malfoy whispering something to Pansy from behind him, but he willed himself not to look or eavesdrop, he didn’t care that much anyways. 

  


The common room was not what Harry had been expecting, he didn’t know what he’d been expecting, perhaps a room decorated with red, yellow, green and blue tones. But definitely not this. The room was wide, that much he’d admit, more than enough to accommodate all the students easily, but it was a plain white color, with four basic lamps on the ceiling and a few beige couches that looked uncomfortable and lumpy. Lastly, seven wooden, chipped coffee tables. It looked, well, for lack of a better word, muggle.

  


Nothing out of the ordinary, no coziness of the Gryffindor common room, no brightness and airiness of the Ravenclaw one, not even the aesthetic of the Slytherin, it looked like an abandoned apartment. Harry couldn’t even feel the pulse of magic that every room in the castle radiated. It felt alarmingly ordinary.

  


He was starting to wonder if that pumpkin juice had been mixed with firewhiskey to calm him down and he was simply too intoxicated to see properly when he heard Ron whisper to Hermione. “Uh, no offense, but what the shite is this?” 

  


Hermione would usually scold her boyfriend for that kind of language, but a quick look at her assured Harry that she was just as bewildered as they were. What was the school playing at? Was this some sort of punishment?

  


“Why, pray tell, does this look like a criminal’s hideout?” Pansy snarled with a scrunch of her nose, rather too loudly for someone who was standing five feet away from the Headmistress, if you asked Harry.

  


Professor McGonagall, instead of looking offended, was looking rather amused and smug about the whole thing, Harry had expected at least a little bit of sympathy, but no such thing came.

"We didn’t have time for anything too elaborate,” Professor McGonagall explained cryptically.

  


"Can we at least transfigure some things and make it decent looking?” Hermione asked. Professor McGonagall shook her head promptly.

  


“No. The room shall stay as it is, you’ll understand later.” Hermione looked like she wasn’t done with her questions, but before she could ask anything the Headmistress clapped her hands together.

  


“I thought it would be wiser to mention this once we were in private and the seventh years couldn’t hear, but considering everything you went through last year and that you’re all of age.” Her eyes softened ever so slightly “Professor Slughorn and I deemed it safe to allow you to go to Hogsmeade every day after dinner if you wish to, with a curfew of 11:50 pm. You’ll also be allowed to leave the castle after your Friday classes and go wherever you’d like as long as you’re back before Sunday at the same time.” Harry couldn’t help but grin at this. That was brilliant, this sense of freedom was exactly what he needed after everything that had happened. He’d been afraid coming back to the schedule of classes, homework and NEWTs would stress him out and make him feel caged, this would certainly help with that.

  


“That’s wicked!” Ron said excitedly, even Hermione seemed fairly pleased at the news. Everyone had begun to eagerly make plans with their group.

  


“Now that that’s over with.” McGonagall swished her wand in the air and a list of names appeared on top of her hat.

  


“The roommate's list.”

  


There was a moment of silence while everyone looked for their own name. Harry’s eyes searched till the end of the list, where his name was written.

  


Along with Malfoy’s.

  


Draco sodding Malfoy.

  


No. Absolutely not.

  


Harry blinked and took off his glasses, cleaning them with his robes. He cursed whoever had potentially spiked his juice, because there was no way he was put in the same bedroom as Draco Malfoy for an entire year. He must have been seeing things, except-

  


“Is this some sort of practical joke?” questioned Malfoy with a look of shock on his face.

  


“I assure you as Headmistress I have no time for humor, Mr. Malfoy.” Harry felt glued to his spot, opening his mouth and giving McGonagall a piece of his mind didn’t seem wise at the time being, not if he didn’t want an immediate expulsion.

  


“No offense, Headmistress. But couldn’t you room Harry with, quite literally, anyone else?” Ron inquired.

  


“I must say I agree with Weasley here, Headmistress.” Malfoy still had not looked at him, as if Harry’s opinion didn’t matter, as if he wasn’t bloody standing there and being affected by the turn of events just as much as he was.

  


“Er, Professor, you can’t possibly expect this to go well,” Harry finally said, unnerved at the brow raise that came from Malfoy. God, he wanted to punch him through a wall just for existing, git.

“No, I don’t expect this to go well.” Both boys opened their mouths to argue, but Professor Mcgonagall continued before they could “But you two have always managed to exceed my expectations, so I trust you to do the same this year by behaving yourselves accordingly. It’s time to put your childish rivalry to an end.”

  


Childish rivalry? Malfoy was a Death Eater. They didn’t have a childish rivalry, they’d fought against each other in a war. A bloody war that had taken lives.

  


_ Ex Death Eater. You testified in his favor. He saved your life _ , His mind quipped. His inner turmoil must have shown in his face, because he felt Hermione squeeze his arm. Not that it did anything to reassure him.

  


“I reckon you’re both capable of acting like adults. No changes,” she added lastly, sealing the matter “Any other questions?” she smiled at them “Well then, I’ll be off. It’s … good to see all of you here.”

  


Harry figured stomping his feet and throwing a fit wouldn’t change anything with McGonagall, Chosen One or not, so he opted for silence. He glanced to his side, where Malfoy stood with the other Slytherins , inspecting the couches as if they were an insult to their presence. Malfoy looked up in that precise second, grey eyes bore into green. Before he could say anything vicious, however, Hermione tugged him by the arm and sat him down next to her, Ron and Neville.

  


“Has she gone mad?” hissed Neville, glancing to his sides to make sure no one from the other houses had heard. Harry did as well, the Ravenclaws that had come back were sitting in their own corner, the Slytherins were standing near the stairs, looking as unfriendly as ever. The Hufflepuffs were discussing something Harry caught a few words of, along with the lines of “not very pleasing” and “needs some plants.”

  


“Hermione is rooming with Parkinson. Can you believe that? Parkinson,” Ron moaned, Hermione looked a little bit sick herself. Perhaps it hadn’t been just his juice. “And Hannah Abbott.”

  


“Well,” Hermione started, lifting her chin “We might as well get used to it, we can’t change what’s been done. Plus, Professor McGonagall would never do something if she really thought a bad outcome for her students would come out of it.” She cringed slightly at the last part, obviously not believing it herself. She shifted on the couch and the wooden floor groaned beneath her, threatening to crumble into pieces.

  


“Who are you two rooming with?”

  


“I’m rooming with Justin Finch-Fletchley and Terry Boot. Not so bad I s'pose.” Neville snorted at that.

  


“Definitely not as bad as Harry’s, although that competition seems quite tough to win.” He teased. Harry was not in a point of his life where he could be amused by any of this or make jokes about it. “Too soon?” He asked then cleared his throat 

  


“Well, I have Zabini and Seamus.” Neville frowned.“Come to think of it, how come you and Malfoy are the only ones that don’t have a third roommate?”

  


“Maybe it was Malfoy’s scheme to get Harry alone and finish him off all along,” Ron said savagely. 

  


Harry wanted to interrupt with a 'Malfoy could not finish me off if his life depended on it’ but Hermione cut in. “You really think Malfoy would willingly get near him this year?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “He may be…insufferable, but he’s certainly not stupid.” She got the three blank looks in return “What I mean is, he managed to stay out of Azkaban by a hair, his family’s name is so tainted that not even their vaults and vaults of money can help, he’ll be keeping to himself if he knows what’s good for him.”

  


Harry felt somewhat relieved at that, she did have a point. It was just one year, he didn’t even have to talk to Malfoy even if they roomed together, they only had to see each other during the night and first thing in the morning.

  


He didn’t know why Malfoy could get under his skin so easily, rile him up in a way that no one else was able to. Harry had lived most of his adolescence being criticized and scrutinized under a microscope, he’d gotten used to it to the point where it rarely affected him what people thought and what they didn’t. He simply had bigger things to concern himself with.

  


But Malfoy, with his pointy face and snarky comments and posh accent, he couldn’t become immune to. It was irrational.

  


Perhaps Professor McGonagall was right , perhaps his anger was childish. Still, it didn’t excuse the stunt that she pulled, there must have been methods less…abrasive.

  


–

  


Harry made it a point to hang out in the common room and avoid going to bed for as long as he could, Malfoy had left a couple of hours ago, presumably to their room.  _ Merlin _ , that sounded nauseating.

  


He’d even endured Ron and Hermione “subtly” snogging, pretending to be heavily engrossed in his new Potions book.

  


At least Ron had had the decency to give him a pitying look when he had gotten up from his position on the couch (if it could be called that, Harry swore he’d seen mud) and headed towards the dorms.

  


“Let me know if the ferret gives you any trouble, mate!” Harry waved his hand dismissively at Ron, and loosened his tie around his neck. He walked through the hallways till he spotted his name, next to Malfoy’s, written in gold letters on the wooden door. He stood in front of it and his fingers closed around the handle, he hesitated, perhaps he should sleep in the common room tonight, or conjure a mattress in Ron’s room.

  


Merlin’s  _ tits _ , was he really letting himself get so upset about this? This was  _ Malfoy _ , he could handle it, he wouldn’t give the gift the pleasure of knowing he’d made Harry sleep somewhere else  or worse, report him to McGonagall for it. He’d fake concern over Harry never making it back to their dorm and Harry would never hear the end of it. The headmistress would give him the look of disapproval he’d become quite accustomed to and raise that frightening brow at him.

  


Gathering as much Gryffindor courage as he could muster in a Gryffindor-less room, he squared his shoulders, opened the door to the room and walked inside.

  


“Knock next time, will you?” Draco said from his position on his bed, he was wearing entirely-too-expensive-looking navy blue silk pajamas that made Harry feel mildly self-conscious and ashamed about his choice of nightwear, which consisted of sweatpants and tshirts with entirely too many holes in them. He had one ankle crossed over the other and a book in his hand. He looked… human and vulnerable. Something he wouldn’t normally think of Draco Malfoy, that thought left him feeling uneasy.

  


“This is my room too, Malfoy,” he shot back angrily.

  


“Yes, but I’ll knock regardless when I know you’re inside, because I’m not a fucking Neanderthal and neither are you, so knock next time, will you?” He said sharply, still not looking up from his book. Harry clenched his fists at his sides, then willed himself to calm down. Godric, he hadn’t been there for thirty seconds and was already plotting murder.

  


“Whatever,” he muttered and opened his trunk. He started arranging his books on a shelf that had been put next to his bed. When he glanced behind him, he noticed

  


Malfoy was staring at him curiously and resisted the urge to squirm.

  


“What,” he bit out. Malfoy shook his head, long, pale fingers flipping the pages.

  


“Wouldn’t it be less complicated, considering how late it is, to simply use your wand?” he asked, looking somewhat amused. Harry clenched his teeth and reminded himself punching Malfoy on the first night would lead to disaster, regardless of how tempting it was.

  


The git was right, somewhat. “Not all of us are completely useless without our magic, Malfoy,” he spat.

  


“No need for the hysterics, Potter. Spare me.” He lifted a hand dismissively, posh accent thick.

  


“Whatever,” he mumbled again. He refused to look at him and see the look of triumph Malfoy most likely had.

  


This day had been long enough as it was. Harry was not going to let him make it worse. He finished unpacking half of his trunk, deciding to leave the rest for the next day and walked into the bathroom, brushing his teeth and changing out of his robes. He delayed stepping out as much as he could, feeling indescribably vulnerable to be in his sleepwear in front of one of the people who hated him the most.

  


With a deep breath, he turned off the lights, opened the door and padded his way to his bed. The room was decorated simplistically , although a lot better than the common room, there were two beds with four posts, but they didn’t have a color scheme like in his previous years. He laid on his bed and took off his glasses, the exhaustion of the day getting to him. Malfoy had already turned off the lights and closed his curtains, so Harry felt no need to say anything that might come out incredibly awkward and forced. Such as goodnight or, Merlin forbid, sweet dreams.

  


The air felt thick and tense, he laid on his back with his arm over his eyes, begging his brain to shut down and let him rest. Just as he was relaxing into his mattress, Malfoy spoke up. “I need to talk with you.” 

  


Harry felt momentarily regretful that he hadn’t remembered to cast a silencing charm.

  


“I never said thank you,” he said, voice cool and neutral. Harry’s breath hitched, and Malfoy continued.“For testifying in my favor, I don’t know why you did it, but .. thank you.” Harry was pretty sure there was no way in hell this was actually taking place. Draco Malfoy laying down in his pajamas across from him and telling him something that wasn’t meant to be harmful and snarky, thanking him, open and what felt to be the closest thing Malfoy would ever get to honest and decent.

  


Harry didn’t buy it.

  


It was difficult to, when Malfoy’s chin had still held high and he’d still addressed him with the same imperious look when he’d entered the room. As if he was still better than Harry no matter what had happened. As if he hadn’t joined the wrong side during a war that killed far too many people and tortured hundreds.

  


Malfoy never lost that infuriating, dignified attitude that resembled his father’s even more than his physical attributes did.

  


But there was something about Malfoy’s tone that Harry had never heard till now, there was a lack of bite and malice to it. Why had Malfoy chosen this exact moment to say it? When they couldn’t see each other and the lights were out? Was it out of cowardice? Perhaps so Harry wouldn’t be able to see his face and he’d sound more genuine?

  


“It’s fine,” he said, knowing better than to ask.

  


Despite himself and the wariness that he felt being so close to Malfoy, he drifted to sleep.

-

  


Draco stared at the ceiling, it felt strange to be in Hogwarts and not fall asleep to the sound of the lake that surrounded the Slytherin dungeons. It used to soothe him. Some nights, when he’d close his eyes for long enough and stayed awake, he could almost feel himself floating, free.

  


He’d learned to find comfort in the strangest of places, in those small crevices that others usually paid no mind. But Draco had to, he had to pay attention, because they were all he had left. He didn’t get to have the big picture, the one with the happy, fulfilling future or a warm place to come home to. He didn’t deserve it after everything he’d done so he was left to find peace with the smaller aspects, such as the bubbling sound of the water in the dungeons, the quiet melodies the mermaids would provide some nights; the crackling of the fireplace, the first flower to bloom in his garden.

  


He’d mastered the art of never taking anything for granted in the last year. He knew better than to show no appreciation to the small moments of his life in which he would be provided with a small dose of peace to keep going. Such as when a stranger would smile at him in the streets, probably oblivious to whom he was and the pain he’d caused; or when he’d start reading a new book and he’d realize it was brilliant, the absolute thrill of it; he adored it all because in those small lapses of time, he was given the gift of forgetting.

  


Forgetting the faces of the people he’d been forced to watch die or get tortured, letting go of all the wrong choices he’d made and the tragedies they had brought.

  


They were temporary, but they were all he would ever get.

  


He replayed the words he’d said to Potter in his mind and cringed inwardly. Perhaps he should have said it face to face instead of waiting till they were separated by curtains and the lights were out. Would Potter misinterpret his motives? Probably.

  


He still didn’t understand why Potter had saved his life twice now, once on the night of the war and a few weeks later during the trials. He didn’t know if it was due to his hero complex or because Draco hadn’t given him and his friends away at the Manor, but regardless, a thank you was due. Probably an apology as well.

  


Later.

  


He certainly couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that he had been invited to complete his education, when he’d first read the letter he couldn’t believe his own eyes, then he’d promptly decided that he would not be attending because McGonagall had most likely sent him his letter because she felt the need to, not because anyone actually wanted him there. Then, of course, Mother had leveled him with one of her well-known glares that let him know he had no say in the matter and would be coming back even if it was the last thing he did. “It’s for your future, dear.” she’d said.

  


As if he had any say at all.

  


But the bags under her eyes had been significantly darker than the previous days, she’d barely touched her dinner and her hand had trembled slightly as she had lifted her cup to her mouth. So Draco hadn’t had the heart to object.

  


Looking back on it, he realized now that not having the heart (or the courage) to object is what had caused most of his problems, so he probably should work on his nerve.

  


Lying there in the dark, he heard Harry move around on his bed, the sheets wrestling with his body and the bed creaking with every twitch. He pressed his hands to his temple, begging the throbbing to simmer down and let him sleep. He didn’t understand why the headmistress had done this, what good could possibly come out of this situation? She was setting them both up for inevitable failure. But with what purpose? His life was already in shambles. He’d already hit rock bottom.

_ No you haven’t, you’re not in Azkaban, because he testified for you _ . His consciousness supplied, and the sudden clarity of the situation was strong enough to make him leap from his bed.

  


Because  _ of course _ .

  


That was exactly what McGonagall had wanted, she clearly expected him to snap and curse Potter with an Unforgivable or dark spell of some sort at some point throughout the year, which would result in him being properly locked up for the rest of his pathetic days. The truth settled in his stomach, cold and unnerving. It stung.

  


It was a plan, it was all a plan that would end in his doom if he fell into its trap. He laid awake for hours trying to plot a way of getting himself out of this situation or assuring it wouldn’t end in chaos but eventually fell asleep to the sound of Potter’s light snoring across the room, five feet away.

  


-

  


Harry awoke with a groan, shivering slightly. He always woke up like this, with his sheets at the far end of the bed because he’d pushed them down halfway through his sleep. Despite the goosebumps on his skin, the  dampness on his forehead and the back of his neck was persistent, it glued his tangled hair to his skin, making him look rather ridiculous.

  


He heard the muffled sound of running water in the bathroom and buried his face in the mattress. He’d blissfully forgotten for a second that he was now rooming with Malfoy. What a bizarre start  to the year, one he’d hoped would be decent. He was sure McGonagall had done this just to spite him for all the stunts he’d pulled throughout his years and the points he’d cost the Gryffindor house.

  


After he’d wallowed in self-pity for what seemed like enough, he dragged himself out of bed, thanking the heavens that it was a Sunday and classes would not be starting until tomorrow. Malfoy still had not come out of the bathroom, even though Harry had been awake for at least fifteen minutes. He banged on the door impatiently.

  


“Malfoy! You’re not meeting the bloody Queen of England.” He heard a shuffling sound before the door opened and steam poured out from behind Malfoy.

  


“Some of us don’t want to look like we just rolled out of a shag, Potter,” he replied, walking over to his bed where his boots were. Harry felt his face heat up and he unconsciously attempted to tame his hair with his fingers, only succeeding in making more of a mess. He slammed the door shut and hopped in the shower.

-

  


“Hullo,” Harry said and flopped down on the bench of the Gryffindor table, across from Ron and Hermione. His mouth began watering as he scooped fresh pancakes on his plate.

  


“So?” Hermione asked with her usual focused attention. She and Ron were looking at him expectantly. Ron had even paused mid bacon-chew.

  


“It was fine. Just.. irritating,” he said, Hermione raised a brow at him, clearly skeptical.

  


“We barely spoke, but he-” Harry looked around to make sure no one was paying them any mind “-he thanked me, for keeping him out of Azkaban.” 

  


Hermione’s eyebrows knitted together. “Did he look like he meant it?”

  


“I don’t know, he waited until the lights were off.”

  


“That’s a bloody weird image, you and Malfoy laying in your beds having a chat,” Ron said, looking slightly nauseous.

  


“I hardly think that constitutes a  _ chat _ ,” Hermione argued, wrinkling her nose as Ron resumed his chewing “No funny business then?” 

  


Harry shook his head. “Er. I think not. How about you two? How did rooming with Parkinson go?” Hermione pursed her lip.

  


“She’s… odd. By the time I got to our room she was already tucked in and had closed and warded her curtains. I’m almost certain she’d also cast a silencing charm on them as well.”

  


“Maybe she was scared someone would curse her while she slept.” Ron shrugged. Harry took another bite of his breakfast, focusing on his chewing. He didn’t like talking about Pansy. He didn’t know how he was supposed to feel towards a girl who had tried to throw him to Voldemort. Anger? Disgust? Sympathy?

  


Hermione thankfully changed the topic. “We’ve got so much to catch up on,” she said, and Ron groaned.

  


“I mean it, Ronald. The rest were here for most of the last year and must have learned a few things here and there, no matter the conditions. They’ll be mostly  reviewing  in the first term, while we’ll be learning everything from scratch,” she explained anxiously. Harry swore he could see the gears spinning  in her brain as she came up with a schedule, which would include dragging them to the library for hours on end.

  


“Hermione, we spent a year on the run away from people who wanted us dead. If anyone learned new spells and skills, it was us,” Harry said reasonably. 

  


Hermione looked like she wanted to object, but Ron cut in before she could. “You worry every year and yet every year you get the best results in our year, love.” Hermione reddened at his words, fighting back a smile. Harry fake-gagged.

  


The three of them laughed, Harry passed Ron some sausage he didn’t want. It felt like they were normal again. Even if it was just for a minute.

  


Harry wondered if it would ever be permanent.

  


-

  


“Draco? Darling?” There was a hesitant knock on the door.

  


“Now isn’t a good time, Pansy.” He sighed, rubbing his face tiredly.

  


“I’m coming in. I hope you’re decent,” she said, waiting a couple of seconds before pushing the door open. He regarded her with a wave and resumed his position on his bed, where he’d been trying to get some sleep. He’d barely slept during the night before, and he knew he needed to be rested for the first day: the odds were already against him as it was. 

  


Pansy sat on the bed next to him, the mattress dipped under her weight. “You didn’t come down for breakfast,” she said. It was a question more than anything else.

  


“I am tired. I wanted to get more sleep.”

  


“So you showered, put on your robes and  _ then  _ decided you were too tired?” she asked, thin brow raised in amusement. He rolled his eyes.

  


“I sat down to put on my shoes and decided it wasn’t worth it,” she chuckled slightly and pulled something out of her robes.

  


“I brought you a muffin in case you get hungry. You’re already too thin as it is,” she waved the desert in front of his eyes and he bit back a smile. Pansy, like Greg and Vincent, had always been a constant in his life, they’d been friends since they were children, long before they were Sorted into the same house. 

  


After the war, he’d expected the friendship to come to an end, especially with everything that had gone down that night. Pansy had tried to convince the other students to give Potter to the Dark Lord, which the other houses hadn’t taken lightly and he, well, Draco was an ex Death Eater, if anything Pansy shouldn’t be seen near him at all. But regardless, she continued talking to him and offering him comfort.

  


Draco was relieved that they both agreed that a friendship was as far as they’d get. They had tried throughout their fourth year to become something more, and Pansy had been eager to sneak into secluded spots with him and get to know him in different ways. Draco hadn’t been opposed at first, but the further they went, the more he realized he was alarmingly not as into it as he’d expected to be. He originally believed himself to be either nervous or just simply not attracted to her, he’d heard his friends in the Slytherin house speak wonders about being with someone in that intimate manner.. Blaise had even said,, “It feels as if your entire body is overpowered by your cock,” with a sly grin, but Draco hadn’t felt that intensity and rush. If anything, it had felt forced and uncomfortable.

  


He’d panicked, of course. He was the Malfoy heir for crying out loud, it was expected of him to have children and continue the bloodline like his ancestors had. When he’d spoken to her about it, because he simply couldn’t stand having her legs wrapped around him with no reaction on his part anymore, she’d initially reacted negatively, obviously taking it to heart. She’d enthusiastically suggested that they try other things, but he’d promptly refused. 

  


She’d been upset at him, of course, and had stopped talking to him for a few weeks.

  


He’d come to the conclusion, during those weeks with just Greg and Vincent for company, that he was simply not into anyone. But then Pansy had asked him if perhaps he didn’t like women, not people in general.

  


He’d been furious at her of course, for daring to suggest such a thing, but the more he’d thought about it, about the way his eyes lingered on men in a way they didn’t on women, about the way he admired Viktor Krum throughout their fourth year, the clearer it became that perhaps she had been right.

  


So he’d told her.

  


Instead of distancing herself from Draco,and potentially outing him to the rest of their house, the two had only grown closer to one another. When he’d told his parents that he had no interest in pursuing anything with her in the romantic spectrum, they’d been disappointed but insisted they would find someone else for him in no time.

  


He hadn’t gone into detail about why the next one wouldn’t work out either.

  


“You’re one to talk,” he teased, not sitting up from his spot on the still-unfamiliar bed, and poking her thighs. She’d lost weight over the last few months as well, the aftermath of the War had taken its definite toll on her. She slapped his arm with a small smile.

  


“A _ thank you _ would suffice.” He shot up from his position on the bed and kissed her cheek before flopping back down. 

  


She clutched her chest dramatically. “ _ Be still my heart _ .” 

  


Draco rolled his eyes at her, smiling against his pillow.

  


“You sure you’re okay?” She pressed shaky fingers brushing away the hair from his forehead. He nodded.

  


“I’ll leave you to it, then. Get some rest,” she said, pressing a kiss to his hair before closing the curtains and the door behind her.  


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to thank my absolute lovely Betas,madeoficeandfire and annegirlblythe, for being absolutely brilliant and helping bring this work to life, I don’t know what I would have done without the pair of you, so thank you thank you thank you from the very bottom of my heart. You can also find both of them on tumblr: madeoficeandfire and harryjamesheadcanons, respectively!
> 
> At last, please review!
> 
> Love, Nhur.

By the time Draco arsed himself out of bed ( _ in his defense, he had been doing light reading for the past few hours, it wasn’t like he had slept the entire day _ ) it was supper time. He’d only eaten the muffin Pansy had provided earlier, so he was positively starving. His mouth watered as he entered the Great Hall and the scent of food entered his nostrils. He cast one quick glance at the Gryffindor table on his way to his own,  and watched as Potter stabbed his food with enthusiasm.

 

Pansy and Blaise spotted him  and they each raised an arm in greeting , motioning for him to sit next to them at the far end of the table. He helped himself to a serving of meatloaf, potatoes and pumpkin juice. Blaise was watching him over the steam of his cup.

 

“Finally decided to leave your cave?” Blaise asked with a raised brow.

 

“You really ought to get over your crush, Zabini.” responded Draco, resisting the urge to flip his friend off. Slytherin house hadn’t lost all its graces, after all. There was still etiquette at the table,  _ thank you very much. _

 

–

 

“Look who decided to show up.” said Ron with a sharp tilt of his head toward the other end of the room. Harry looked up from his neglected food and saw Malfoy sitting next to Parkinson, scooping food onto his plate with what looked like mild distaste. He probably deemed himself deserving of a better feast, the absolute git.

 

“Could you fetch me that treacle tart?” He asked Hermione, giving up on the remains of dinner on his plate. She eyed him curiously and passed it to him.

 

A voice from behind them prevented Harry from taking his first bite, however. “Um, excuse me? Mr. Potter.” He paused the fork halfway through his mouth and looked behind him, a young Slytherin girl, no doubt a first or second year, was standing with a book clutched in her hands. The tips of her ears were pink and she bounced from one foot to the other.

 

“Er… yes?” he asked, trying not to sound outright rude but unsure what she wanted. Had he somehow forgotten his book somewhere? Classes hadn’t even started. 

 

She only seemed to get redder, and she showed him the book. It was her copy of A History of Magic. He raised a brow at her, and, with big hopeful eyes, she asked, “Could you possibly sign this for me?” Harry, appalled, waited for the punchline. It never came, however, instead the young girl shifted her weight from one foot to another. He was reminded of his second year with Professor Lockhart, who would enthusiastically give autographs to those who asked for it and even to those who didn’t. He’d be a huge twat if he were to shoot her down, they were supposed to promote inter-house unity, after all.

  
  
  


“Uh, yeah.. okay. What’s your name?” He took the quill and book from her hand and opened the first page, feeling slightly embarrassed at the snickers he could hear among the Gryffindor table. He wondered for a second if the Slytherin house was pranking him, if the girl planned on stomping on the book in front of everyone as soon as he signed it. A quick look at the Slytherin table assured him, though, that they weren’t even looking at him.

 

“Iasmin,” she said enthusiastically. He signed on the book with his signature and paused, unsure what to write next, he couldn’t come off sentimental, nor could his message read detached and cold, with a deep breath, he settled for the safest option he could think of.

_ “To Iasmin, thank you for support, have a brilliant seven years at Hogwarts.” _

He handed her the book with a smile.

 

“Thank you! Thank you so much. I think what you did was really brilliant, you know,” she said, and bowed ever so slightly before taking off to her own table. With a spare thought for the man in the strange purple robes he’d seen in the shop with Aunt Petunia what felt like lifetimes ago. Harry looked around to find his friends looking just as bewildered as he felt. He never in a million years thought someone from the Slytherin house would admire him in any way.

 

Ron cleared his throat. “That was bloody weird.” 

 

“Tell me about it,” Harry mumbled, resuming his focus on his tart. He still felt uneasy- although flattered. 

 

“Do you reckon she’s going to try and blackmail you with it?” Ron asked, his eyes comically wide.

 

“Honestly, Ronald.” Hermione rolled her eyes, but turned to Harry instead of addressing his comment. “You do have to set a limit though, they can’t just interrupt you when you’re eating or when you’re in a hurry. It’s bound to happen again.” 

 

Harry shrugged, he didn’t want to seem ungrateful for their praise and admiration, but it did get on his nerves when their timing was awful.This particular girl, however, had seemed sweet: she hadn’t pestered him with endless questions he didn’t want to answer, or attempted to linger at the table and talk to him. She’d been quite charming, with warm hazel eyes and brown hair. He shot a look at her the hall, and with a quick scan of the  first years found her standing next to a girl with dark black wavy hair and eyes that stared at him back in wonder.

 

-

 

The walk back to his dorm after dinner was dreadful, as Harry was not looking forward to facing Malfoy again. He’d carefully (and successfully) avoided him the entire day, but in their new shared living quarters? He knew he wouldn’t be so lucky

 

The thing was, he didn’t know how to act around Malfoy. Was he still supposed to be cross? Were they still some sort of enemies? Or was there an unspoken rule of civility now that they’d somewhat saved each other’s lives? Harry didn’t know if he could summon the energy to fight him constantly throughout the year.

 

When he walked inside their dormitory, Malfoy was sitting on his bed with the curtains half opened. As soon as he spotted Harry, he closed them with feigned subtlety. Harry sighed and headed for the bathroom; if Malfoy deemed it better to promptly ignore him from now on perhaps it would be easier to get through this year uncomfortable silences and all.

 

As he laid in bed, he wondered if the tension affected Malfoy as much as it did him, or if he couldn’t arse himself to care about such things anymore, not after everything that had happened. He didn’t know why the git managed to get under his skin the way he did, the mere sight of him put him on alert and in defense mode. It wasn’t that Harry felt threatened by him anymore, but he still couldn’t help but watch him.

 

Old habits die hard.

 

He recalled the conversation he’d had with Hermione before, about whether or not he had decided what he wanted to do. Harry wasn’t sure if he’d ever feel eagerness and curiosity to learn again. He remembered the first years of his education at Hogwarts, he’d been so eager to learn and absorb as much as he could, he was enamored with the world he’d been lucky to be a part of. Now, most days felt like a chore. He was a kid back then, when he said he wanted to be an Auror and help the world like his father had in the Order. He’d had  ambition in his veins and fight in his heart. Lately, barely anything fazed him, and less still pumped his veins with adrenaline. Anger, numbness, temporary false sense of emotional stability and sadness were all he could feel  most of the time.

 

Everyone had lost something in the war. Harry had lost friends, he’d lost the closest people to a family he had left, and without knowing it, he’d lost himself.

 

Tonight, his head wasn’t as kind as it had been the night before. He got none of the instant sleep, none of the sleepy, full, back to school peacefulness. He fell asleep far too late, already dreading the morning.

 

-

 

Harry ran down the hallways headed to the dungeons. He’d slept in, of course, and was now five minutes late to double Potions.

 

“Sorry Professor,” he panted as soon as he walked in.

 

“Harry, my boy, do come in,” Slughorn said with a grin “We were dividing everyone into pairs, but I’m afraid there isn’t anyone left.” 

 

Harry looked around the familiar classroom  and noticed that indeed, everyone had been paired up When he looked in the back of the classroom, he realized, much to his embarrassment, that Malfoy was the only one sitting alone..

 

He cursed his luck.

 

“Malfoy isn’t partnered with anyone, sir.” Harry said, already stepping cautiously to where Malfoy sat. Slughorn pursed his lips.

The mention of his name brought Malfoy out of his thoughts and he looked up, glanced at Harry in confusion, then at the room, then at Harry again. But since Malfoy didn’t seem to be paying attention to what Slughorn was saying, Harry wondered whether the professor had completely ignored Malfoy’s existence or if he simply hadn’t seen him. Realization seemed to hit him after a second and with a subtle glare, he picked up his bag from the chair next to him and motioned for him to take a seat.

 

“Ah, well.” Slughorn cleared his throat. “Now that that’s sorted, I do want to welcome you all to your final year. I’m sure you know your situation is fairly unusual-” 

 

Harry tuned this part of the speech out, since every teacher would more than likely be giving it

 

“Isn’t it enough that we have to share a dorm?” Malfoy hissed.

 

“It’s not my fault you were the only one left!” Harry hissed back. Did Malfoy think he had planned this or was in any way  _ happy  _ with how things had turned out?

 

“If you weren’t such a lazy slob, you would have been in time,” Malfoy said, more his old self than Harry had seen him yet this year. Maybe it ought to have comforted him to know that not everything was changing, but the git was as infuriating as ever. 

 

“Well, maybe next time, care enough to wake me up if you see that I’m running late to a class we both have.”

 

“I’m not your bloody  _ alarm _ , Potter.” 

 

Harry had thought of a comeback, he really had. But he heard the shuffling sound of books being opened and averted his attention to the other tables, opening his as well and promptly ignoring Malfoy. Hermione, partnered with Ron, caught his eye and winced sympathetically. 

 

“Very well.” Slughorn clapped his hands together. “Today we’ll be brewing Felix Felicis, also known as Liquid Luck.” There were a few surprised murmurs around the room, Slughorn ignored them promptly. “If you recall, I gave a student a small dose of it when he won it in his sixth year.” He looked at Harry and grinned cheekily, Harry’s face heated up when he heard Malfoy snort next to him. “This year however, you’ll be brewing it instead.”

 

“But it takes six months to brew, sir.” Hermione protested, and just like that, the school year had begun

 

“Very well, Miss Granger.” Slughorn retrieved a vial from his desk and held it up “Some of you may be familiar with it, but this is what a successfully brewed Felix Felicis looks like.” He swished the molten gold liquid, and explained “We’ll start the brewing and brew other advanced Potions in between, so that we don’t lose time. You will not be asked to brew this particular potion, but it is very likely that you’ll be asked about it in your written exam.” 

“But sir, this potion is hellishly hard to brew and it’s also toxic in high quantities. The chances of anyone who isn’t a Potions Master successfully brewing it are ridiculously slim,” Hermione interrupted.

 

Slughorn looked mildly annoyed that Hermione was questioning him and he forced out a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’ll be helpful, should you get any questions about it in your NEWTs, Miss Granger. I won’t base your final mark off of how you brew it - if you fail, no points will be taken off, if you succeed, you’ll receive extra credit.” 

“Now, class, please open your books on page twenty-three and retrieve the ingredients that you’ll need.” 

Harry did as he was  told, watching from the corner of his eye as Malfoy did the same.

 

“Can I trust you to fetch the ingredients while I set up the cauldron?” Malfoy said.

 

Harry rolled his eyes and rose from his seat, open book in hand. “Bugger off, Malfoy,” he said, and glanced at the ingredients list.

 

_ * Ashwinder egg _

_ * Squill bulb _

_ * Murtlap tentacle _

_ * Tincture of thyme _

_ * Occamy eggshell _

_ * Powdered common rue _

 

He followed Hermione into the pantry and began snatching the ingredients from the shelves. 

 

Hermione was giving him a pointed, expectant look. “What?” he asked, all innocence.

 

She sighed, picking up two Murtlap Tentacles and placing one in her basket and the other in Harry’s. “Will you be okay? Brewing this potion?” She asked, not meeting his eye, and continuing to put the ingredients in his basket. He shifted from one foot to the other, ignoring the slight tightening of his chest.

 

He’d been trying to not notice the slight twist of his gut at the mention of the potion. This is the Potion he’d used in his sixth year to protect his friends from the danger that Malfoy himself had brought into the school, now he was supposed to brew it with Malfoy himself like nothing had ever happened. Like Dumbledore hadn’t been killed that night, like his friends hadn’t been tortured at school the following year, like Malfoy hadn’t taken the mark, dark and repulsive on his skin, Harry was sure.

 

It was bizarre. It made him sick.

 

“Malfoy was never the enemy, Harry.” Hermione said and he turned to stare at her in shock “He’s an ignorant and racist. Or was, I don’t know. He did awful things, but I don’t think he was ever a killer. I don’t think he ever wanted any of this,” she explained, Harry opened his mouth and closed it like a gaping fish.

 

“What’s up with you all of a sudden? Defending him after everything that happened. After what you went through in  _ his  _ home.” 

 

She flinched at the mention of that and he wished he hadn’t brought it up. “If you’re going to live this entire year with your wand beneath your pillow and your hand tightly clutching it, you won’t last.” 

 

He wanted to protest and demand her to have more faith in him, he’d managed all these years just fine with that modus operandi, thank you very much 

 

“I’m not saying let your guard down or bond with him, I just hate seeing you on edge all the time, you shouldn’t have to be, not anymore. You did your part and you deserve to rest already.”

 

He wanted to say something, wanted to explain that he’d lived all his adolescence with death licking at his heels, that he’d died already for Merlin’s sake. One could never let go of that. The constant fear, the constant nagging in the back of his mind, the feeling of walking towards your own end, not knowing what would come after it but having to do it either way. He couldn’t forget that. Couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.

 

He would never go back to being the person he used to be at age eleven, oblivious and naive, curious and ready to take on whatever he faced. He couldn’t look at any of his friends without remembering something from the war. Every corner of the castle was a place where he’d seen someone die, every time Hermione laughed he’d be brought back to her screaming as Bellatrix tortured her, every time Ron was distant he’d get a sinking feeling that he’d leave again.

 

He couldn’t look at Parvati Patil without seeing Lavender being mauled. He couldn’t look at George without knowing Fred had died in a war he himself was responsible for. He couldn’t look at Teddy, couldn’t possibly become attached to the boy knowing that one day Teddy would learn what happened and hate him for it, despise him for the death of both of his parents. He couldn’t look out the window without seeing the Forest he’d lost his life in.

 

He’d close his eyes and wake up in the Forest of Dean, where the cold seeped into his bones and they barely had any meals during most days, where he didn’t know what calm or tranquility felt like for months, where, if he stayed quiet for long enough, if he held his breath, he could hear the animals fighting over food in the distance and he’d wait, wait, wait hoping that they’d come for him too and end it.

 

He can’t get out.  _ He can’t. _

 

“Harry.” Hermione’s gaze softened and she squeezed his shoulder tenderly. “Just remember, that it was McGonagall who placed you in the room with Malfoy. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that you are dear to herin a way that few are, she wouldn’t do anything that could potentially harm you. I think she’s doing all of this for a reason, I think we ought to have a little faith in what she thinks is best. You trusted Dumbledore all these years despite the fact that he didn’t particularly earn it. Headmistress McGonagall has earned that trust and is worthy of it. I know you can’t suddenly switch gears and erase everything that you went through. I know you’ve been in survival mode for years, but you don’t have to be. Not anymore.” 

 

Her words played in his head as she placed the remaining ingredients in his basket and he started to feel slightly dizzy. “What do you mean Dumbledore didn’t earn it?” he asked, frowning.

 

“We’ll talk about it later,” she promised, squeezed his arm, and went back to her table. He took a couple of seconds to gather himself and stepped out as well, sitting next to a Malfoy, who had been adjusting the fire beneath the cauldron with his wand. “Start adding the eggs will you? I haven’t got all day.” 

 

Harry, albeit begrudgingly, did as he was told. Hermione’s words stayed with him throughout all of double Potions.

 

_ “You trusted Dumbledore all these years despite the fact that he didn’t particularly earn it.” _

-

 

Harry snatched Hermione from Ron’s arms once they were in their common room that day, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what she’d said to him earlier that day, which had resulted in him almost forgetting to adjust the flame beneath the cauldron if Malfoy hadn’t reminded him to do so with a scoff.

 

He sat with on the stairs that led to the dorm rooms, looking at her expectantly.

 

“I’m guessing you want me to explain myself now,” she said, sitting next to him with her shoulder bumping against his. 

 

“That’d be nice, yes. I was under the impression that you thought highly of him, Mione.” 

 

She toyed with the hems of her skirt. “The more I think about what Ron said, back in the Forest, the more I realize he may have been right.” There was a silence that followed and Harry wondered if she would elaborate or just leave it at that.

 

“But he was being affected by the Horcrux, you know that.” he protested.

 

“I do. But Harry, think about it. This man left you with a muggle family that abused you for years. He.. he put all this responsibility on you when you were only eleven. He expected you to figure out what was happening with the Chamber of Secrets on your own. He knew each time that you would get into trouble and into a danger too massive for a child yet he never did anything to stop it, if anything-” she paused and took a breath, collecting her thoughts “If anything he encouraged it by sending you all these clues and riddles. The whole puzzle with the Snitch, the Horcruxes,  _ everything _ , Harry. He  _ knew  _ you’d have to die, he  _ knew  _ you were one of them, but he never.. he never truly sat you down and explained to you what you were involving yourself in. He never bothered to tell you the information that was vital for you. For all we know...” She chuckled bitterly. “For all we know he may have known Sirius was innocent but refused to do anything about it.” 

 

A chill ran through his body at that: that was not possible, Dumbledore would not have done that. 

 

“And Hagrid? Hagrid was expelled unfairly, and he  _ knew  _ that, Harry. He couldn’t protect him? But he could protect Snape after You Know Who disappeared? It just seems like he only ever cared about those who benefited him somehow. As if Life and Death were a game to him.” 

 

Harry felt nauseous by the end of her speech. He remembered Snape’s words to Dumbledore.  _ “Now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter?” _

 

It was too much, it went against everything he had come to believe in as a boy turning into the excuse of a man he now was. He’d always seen Dumbledore as the one person he could be safe with, but was he?

 

“He did a lot for you and the Wizarding World.” Hermione said “but, I don’t know if you should idolize him as much as you do. I don’t think he did everything right, I don’t think he was the wise, kind, invincible man we were taught to see him as.” Harry felt speechless as if the world had suddenly decided to turn its axis on him without previous warning. He had never considered it, the possibility of defying Dumbledore’s beliefs and wishes. Dumbledore’s words had always been final, not up for debate or discussion.

 

Perhaps that was what Hermione was referring to.

 

“I wonder if he ever saw you as a boy.” Hermione continued, now stroking his hand with her thumb “If he ever sat down and told himself, _ this is a child _ and I’m putting the weight of the world on his shoulders, without even fully telling him what’s happening.” 

 

“Where is this even coming from?” he asked, for lack of something better to say. The voices coming from the common room grew louder.

 

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, I suppose,” she said. “At first I was...sad and hurt and devastated by everything but now...my mind is clearer and I’m just…angry.” Her voice faltered and she gripped his hand tighter “I’m seeing everything from a new perspective”

 

“I wish I felt angry. He admitted, staring at the patterns in the stone walls around them. He was quiet for a while, but Hermione didn’t press. She waited until he found his words again “I’m just… empty. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know what to do or how to think. I’m just … tired. I feel as if there’s something in my chest pushing me down with it.” It felt good, telling her that after all this time.

 

“That’s okay,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder “You don’t have to figure it out now. You’ve lived your whole life making decisions quickly, maybe it’s time you take some time to figure out who you have always been.” 

 

Harry’s throat tightened. “Do you think he knew?” He asked, his heart felt particularly small. “About Sirius, do you think…”

 

“Yes,” Hermione said firmly. “I think the only reason he didn’t help Sirius was that  _ he  _ needed to be the person you trusted the most. I think he knew Sirius would take that from him, and his plan wouldn’t go as smoothly..” 

 

Harry’s eyes widened. Merlin. What was he supposed to say when one of the most brilliant people he knew was telling him he’d been used as a toy by the one person he’d put his faith in? It made sense. Harry hated it.

 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought this up-” There was a shuffling of robes as someone rounded the corner and stood before them.

 

Malfoy.

 

Of all people.

 

There was an awkward silence followed by Malfoy clearing his throat, motioning with his head for Harry and Hermione to grant him space so he could climb the stairs. Hermione moved her head from Harry’s shoulder and they both moved to opposite sides, letting him through.

 

Malfoy stepped in between them, Harry frowned when he noticed there was a slight limp to his footing.

 

Once Malfoy had gone up the stairs and disappeared into the hallway, Harrye looked back at Hermione.

 

“Had he been limping?” Harry asked. He hadn’t been limping in the morning, nor in the Great Hall as he took a seat at the Slytherin table.

 

-

 

In retrospect, Draco should have known that forced rooming with Potter aside, his day had been going unrealistically well.

 

_ Suspiciously  _ well.

 

He had exited the Great Hall after dinner and decided to visit the library so he could take out a book and read it in bed, when he’d heard footsteps behind him. He hadn’t thought anything of it, he was well aware that he wasn’t the only one frequenting the library at night, but when he’d doubled the corner and heard snickers, the hairs on his body had stood on edge.

 

“Oi, Malfoy. Wait up!” A voice from behind him had said and he had ignored it, quickening his pace.

 

There had been an incantation and a hex had fallen next to him, barely missing him as he moved. He had immediately tensed and reached for the wand he had been given by McGonagall earlier so he could train for his NEWTs, seeing as his own wand was still, he guessed, under Potter’s possession. He had turned his head slightly and spotted the group of Gryffindors, fifth or six years, following him with a malicious glint in their eyes.

 

“It’s time for payback innit?” One of the boys had said. He’d smiled nastily at Draco and twirled his wand in his hand.

 

Weighing his options in his head, Draco continued walking. He couldn’t hex them back, he was walking on thin ice as it was. One wrong choice and he’d be locked up for life in Azkaban. He had decided to cast a Protego behind him but just as it had begun surrounding him, a stinging hex had hit his lower back and another one his leg, piercing through his robes. His knees had almost buckled but he had willed himself to stay on his feet.

 

Loud laughter had broken from behind him. A few other hexes were cast but were repelled by his shield. He had kept his pace and rounded the corner again, reaching the entrance of the Library where he knew his tormentors couldn’t continue without risking being caught.

 

“Not so brave now huh?” The boy had snarled. “You’ll regret ever deciding to show your face here again, you piece of  _ shit _ .”

 

As if that hadn’t been humiliating enough, after he’d escaped, he’d run into  _ Potter _ , who had undoubtedly noticed him limping and would make fun of him for it later. He entered their dorm room and went to tend to his wounds before Potter would turn in for the night.

 

-

 

Harry laid in bed that night, he couldn’t even pretend to concentrate earlier in the Chess game Ron had challenged him to. Had he really been a pawn in Dumbledore’s game all along? Had the man ever truly cared for him? Everything Hermioned had said had given him food for thought, and laying there, he couldn’t stop making connections and realizing that her mindset and opinion explained a lot of things.

 

Dumbledore had put too much responsibility on the  boy Harry was newly seeing himself as. That was undeniable. He had kept vital information from Harry for years, expecting him to figure it out on his own. Perhaps he had cared about Harry, but he’d cared about his own resolutions more.

 

The more he thought about it, the more he realized he was treated like a pawn.

 

Sleep found him after a couple of hours, when only the lullaby of the wind and the soft rain hitting his window along with Malfoy’s slow breathing across the room could be heard, soothing his thoughts.

 

–

 

Draco was, rather rudely, woken up from his sleep. He drifted away from the peculiar tranquility of that dream, where he could only hear the pouring water as if he was back in the Slytherin dungeons. It took him a moment  to understand just what had woken him up, but once he did, he sat abruptly and warily on his bed.

 

There was a sheet-shuffling sound coming from Potter’s bed and... Draco strained his hearing through the panting.

 

Potter’s face was heated and flushed. Did he...have someone with him in bed? Could he not have the decency to cast a  _ Muffiato _ ? Draco hadn’t wanted to hear that.

 

He was going to kill him. He was.

 

He absolutely did not want to know who it was. It was probably the She-Weasel. Or maybe it was Granger. They had looked pretty cozy when he’d ran into them in the stairwell. Were they going at it behind both of their respective Weasley’s backs? Now  _ that  _ would be scandalous. Pansy would faint from happiness.

 

Despite himself and the knowledge that he would regret this, Draco shuffled forward and opened his bed curtain.

 

Potter’s curtains were slightly ajar, and Draco could make out his messy hair sprawled on his pillow. He flinched back in fear of being seen, Potter would never let him live it down if he saw him spying, but just as he was about to close his curtains once again he noticed that there didn’t seem to be anyone else on the other bed. Potter tilted his head in that moment and-

His eyes were closed.

 

Draco furrowed his brows and watched him, Potter’s breathing was ragged and he jerked his head ever so slightly every few seconds. There was sweat building up on his hair and plastering it to his forehead.

 

It clicked in Draco’s mind. Potter was having a nightmare. He flinched in sympathy, he knew far too well what that felt like.

 

Was he supposed to help? Or worse, was Potter playing tricks on him for old time’s sake? Draco wouldn’t put it past him to pull a stunt of that sort only to spite him and then attempt to throw him off balance. Still,  he reached for his wand and cast a cleaning spell at Potter, to rid him of the sweat gathering on his skin and sheets, then flicked his wand again to tuck him under the blankets that had balled up at his feet, then closed his curtains.

 

He slumped against his pillow, cursing Potter for interrupting his rest and tried not to dwell on the fact that he’d helped Potter, willingly, when he knew he could have just cast a Muffiato charm on the git, or attempted to smother him with a pillow to silence him.

 

But Potter had looked so vulnerable, perhaps that’s what had lured Draco in, Potter looked young and well... human.

 

Draco supposed he’d never seen Potter in such a light, he’d always been a hero, untouchable... no matter how much one reached out, he’d come back from the dead, for goodness sake.

He’d been fed stories of this boy who had single-handedly defeated a wizard no other man could. Then, as if to prove it hadn’t been luck, had gone out and done it again and again and again.

 

While it got to his nerves how seemingly perfect everyone perceived Potter to be, how he’d flat out refused to shake his hand first year, how he could get away with things other students would have been expelled for. Draco hated it. But… it was undeniable that Potter seemed made of steel at times. Even Draco had learned to be grateful, in a way, for what he’d done.

 

Maybe it was the realization that Potter wasn’t made of steel, that he bled red, that pushed him to help the boy who had cursed his life since he’d first met him.

-

 

“I still can’t believe there’s no Quidditch for the eighth years, you’d think winning  a war would earn us the privilege,” Ron complained, scooping eggs onto his plate.

 

“Merlin help me if I have to hear you complain about that one more time.” Ginny said with a hint of a  threat.

 

“Easy for you to say.” He pointed at her with his fork accusingly. “You get to play.” His expression twisted further. 

 

Ginny chuckled and twisted her fiery red hair behind her ear. “You’ve still got Sundays to… freestyle a bit.” She offered with a quick shrug, biting into the apple in her hand.

 

“We’re bloody repeating our seventh year! If we can’t play, seventh years shouldn’t be able to either.” Ron grumbled, positively pouting although Harry knew he’d deny it.

 

“Careful there, mate,” Harry warned  grinning. “Wouldn’t want to be at the receiving end of one of her hexes, would you?” 

 

Ginny held her hand up and high-fived him. “It’s about equal opportunity, Ronald.” 

 

Hermione scoffed, although she wasn’t serious in her derision.  “If you two get to be on the team even though you shouldn’t...technically be here, first and second years would miss the chance of having the chances you two did when you were younger.” She folded the copy of the Daily Prophet and placed it on her lap, Ron muttered, “ **B** loody first years,” under his breath and resumed his eating, and the corner of Hermione’s lips twitched in a fond smile.

 

She paused to look at Harry  with a tilt of her head. “You look particularly rested,” she noted.

 

“Guess I am.” Harry answered with a shrugged, stabbing his sausage and popping it in his mouth.

 

“No nightmares last night?”

 

“I had nightmares alright, just didn’t wake up, managed to sleep through the whole night somehow. I even woke up with my sheets almost all the way up to my chin and a dry pillow, I’d count that as a win.”

 

\---

 

The next two weeks passed rather uneventfully, other than focusing on his school work, flying on both Sundays and carefully avoiding Malfoy as much as he could (something he felt no guilt for, since he was pretty sure the other had been doing just the same and it was an unspoken agreement between them at this point, reducing themselves to nods of acknowledgement whenever their eyes met inconveniently, something he knew his thirteen-year-old self would be scandalized by), he hadn’t done much.

 

Meeting the new Defence Against The Dark Arts professor had been quite interesting. Every year Dumbledore had managed to employ someone less adept for the job as the year before, with the exception of Lupin, so he’d been looking forward to meeting the new one McGonagall had chosen.

  
  


Professor McNeill was a retired Auror that seemed to be in his early forties, the reason of his retirement had been the critical injuries in his leg that he’d received during the war, making him unable to actively be in the field. So he’d chosen to apply for the job as DADA professor. 

 

The man was quite experienced, he thought them techniques he’d learned along the way and allowed them to apply them in the classroom against inanimate targets. Whenever he taught a new spell he made sure everyone in the class would cast it and he’d review their work individually, he’d also make comments about old spells that they ought to know by now but might need to be refreshed in case any questions about them were asked in their future NEWTs, which even Hermione appreciated. He’d promised them he’d allow them to duel the last two periods before the start of winter break, Harry was much looking forward to friendly sparring.

 

His cynical thoughts (that he’d earned every right to have, thank you very much) had been proven wrong so far, in the four classes they’d had with the man in the two weeks they’d been there (Tuesdays and Thursdays) he’d been quite pleased with the results.

 

He also seemed to make active effort into not treating Harry as an elite student, which he definitely appreciated, as he’d been dreading the introduction and the words of “pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter sir.” that he’d suspected would come. The man had simply greeted them all and let his eyes linger on Harry for a moment, before continuing on with his lesson.

Harry had no complaints so far.

 

“I hope Hagrid changes the content  this year, if I have to hear one more time about the different mating rituals of magical creatures I’ll barf,” said Seamus on as the eighth years made their way to Hagrid’s hut for Wednesday’s class of Care of Magical Creatures. The rest of the group snickered.

 

Harry loved Hagrid, from the bottom of his heart. That man had been the first spark of hope and happiness he’d felt in his entire life when he was eleven, he’d introduced him to a world Harry hadn’t even dared to dream of and changed his life forever and had stayed by his side till the very end and then some, but the first two weeks of classes had been…as Seamus had said, entirely disturbing He shuddered and repressed the thought.

 

They reached the grounds, the cool breeze announcing the start of autumn blowing against their skin, colouring their noses and cheeks a light shade of pink, Harry wrapped his robes tighter around himself, he should have listened to Hermione when she’d told him to wear his scarf. One would think he would have learned by now. Hermione and Ron chatted beside him, hands linked beneath their sleeves.

 

“D'ya reckon we’ll ever meet a vampire? That’d be wicked.” Ron’s eyes gleamed.

 

“It would be.” Hermione agreed, shockingly. Harry was sure sometimes she disagreed with Ron just to spite him. “Although I seriously doubt it.”

 

Hagrid grinned at them when he spotted them, waving a big hand and motioning for them to come closer.

 

“Got something really interesting for yeh,” he announced to the class “S’ usually not in the program, but yer all a different lot, the few of you, reckon this would do yeh some good.” Harry frowned, casting a confused look at Ron, who didn’t look like he knew what was happening either. They followed Harry, along with the remaining of the Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and Slytherins. Harry’s frown only deepened when he realized Hagrid was leading them to the Forbidden Forest.

 

He trotted past Padma and Parvati and caught up with Hagrid, walking at his side.

 

“Going anywhere in particular?” he asked in what he hoped was a nonchalant voice. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to go back in there again for now, or ever…for that matter. Hagrid looked down and seemed surprised to find him there, but smiled at him warmly nonetheless.

 

“Got some unusual creatures for yeh, but yeh can manage ‘em. They can be scary, the lot of them, but they’re kind.” He scratched his beard and quickened his pace, turning back to see if everyone was still following him. Harry’s stomach dropped.

 

“It’s surely not vampires, is it?” He asked, almost tripping over a rock. 

 

Hagrid chuckled and shook his head. “Yeh’ll know once yeh seen them, Harry.” this didn’t do much to calm his nerves, nothing at all, in fact, if anything he was more nervous.

 

As they reached the forest, Harry tried to focus on the sounds of the animals and the leaves and sticks of wood as they were stepped on to calm his racing heart. He distracted himself with the luring aura that the Forest always seemed to give off, inviting fools in. Focus, focus… focus. Breathe. He told himself the sounds meant nothing was out of the ordinary, for in that particular night no beings had sung or stirred, only the hollow echoes had followed his footsteps. Today, a loom of light shone through the trees that stood tall and proud in their ground with a serenity he wished he possessed and left no place for the shadows that had cornered him the night of May 2nd. He focused on the grass tickling his ankles and the soft sound of the lake nearby.

 

Just as they were about to get deeper into the forest, into the last area Harry wanted to be in and he felt his lungs may start burning, Hagrid stopped abruptly, Harry was brought out of his haze by the gasp that emitted from the group behind him.

 

He blinked his eyes. Before him stood five fleshless, black coated creatures with leathery wings and seemingly hollow horns he recognized far too well.

 

“Thestrals?” Hermione asked, shock evident in her voice and expression. Murmurs broke out between the groups.

 

“Quie’ please!” Hagrid said, and the whispering lowered in volume, but did not halt. Everyone looked a shade or two paler as they gaped at the creatures in front of them.

 

“But, Hagrid…due to their XXXX classification, the ministry of magic only allows experienced-”

 

“Experienced wizards or me te handle em, I know,” Hagrid interrupted. “I spent some time with them the last few months, they won’t be attackin’ any o’ yeh unless they think yeh’re a threat.” He explained, this did nothing to soothe the group. Harry’s eyes immediately went to Malfoy, who was bordering on purple at this point and looked somewhat alarmed.

 

“What is everyone talking about?” Parvati Patil blurted out, eyes wide. “I don’t see anything!” Harry flinched at the shrieking tone, everyone eyed Parvati like she’d lost her marbles.

 

“Shhh!” Hagrid shushed as he pressed a finger to his mouth and gave her a pointed look. He scratched the back of his head “Thestrals are-”

 

“I know what they bloody  _ are _ ,” Parvati said darkly, crossing her arms.

 

“They can only be seen by someone who’s seen death.” Harry found himself quoting Luna once he remembered. The line between Parvati’s dark brows only deepened.

 

“I’ve.. I’ve seen it. I was here too.” Rather unsure about bringing up the topic. Padma was rubbing her arm, attempting to calm her nerves. Harry suddenly remembered something important and for once, he wished Hermione would say it instead of him. His heart clenched in his chest. “You’ve got to… have accepted the death as well.” 

 

Parvati jerked and took his words in, then her dark eyes watered, almost unnoticeably when she understood what he meant.

 

“You don’t- you don’t mean Lavender.” She choked, sounding as if she was begging for him to prove her suspicions wrong. The drop of a pin could have been heard in that moment. Harry had never let himself think of it, how the twins had accepted their best friend’s death. He himself was tainted by the image of it at times, Lavender’s limp body on the floor as Parvati tried her best to protect her.

 

The silence that stretched was heartbreaking, as Parvati’s bottom lip began to tremble and she tried furiously to blink away the tears. Padma looked sick and lost.. Harry glanced at Malfoy, who was staring at the ground like he wanted it to swallow him whole.

 

“I think you should dismiss Parvati, Professor Hagrid,” Neville suggested, looking at the gruesome beasts with unease.

 

Harry didn’t know what that felt like, so he couldn’t think of any words of support or wisdom to offer. He’d long ago accepted the deaths of everyone that had left, his issue was mostly understanding that apparently there wasn’t much he could have done, that…as Hermione always said, it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t imagine how Parvati dealt with it, refusing to understand and accept her best friend’s death, clinging to hope that perhaps she would come back one day, even though she wouldn’t.

 

Harry was no one to judge her, he knew everyone dealt with trauma differently.

 

“If yeh wish to, I’ll take yeh.” Hagrid said, Parvati seemed to consider this for a moment, before hugging herself with her arms and shaking her head.

 

An awkward silence followed before Blaise Zabini spoke up. “Are we going to learn something at some point?” He asked condescendingly. Harry clenched his fists at his sides.

 

“Right, yeh.” Hagrid clapped his hands together “Thestrals look scary, but they are smart creatures. Spent the summer with em’ meself, discovered a lot 'bout them that I’d never read about.” He admitted, looking fondly at the creatures who were looking at the students with mild interest as if surprised that so many people could see them.

 

Harry’s stomach clenched again.

 

Hagrid’s small smile faltered “I know yeh went through some horrible things, horrible. Reckon yeh could use a good memory, couldn’t yeh?” He asked enthusiastically, although it didn’t reach his eyes.

 

“What sort of memory?” Dean asked. Everyone perked up at this. Harry shivered as a draft went through the branches of the trees and swept past him.

 

“I discovered when I hung out with 'em,” he gestured behind him. “That if yeh press yer forehead to theirs, they’ll show yeh a happy memory with a loved one yeh… lost.” There was another deafening silence as his words sunk in. 

 

He didn’t know if he was ready for such a thing, to bare himself and receive a memory that might only make everything worse than it already was. The Slytherins, too, were subdued, looking uneasy and uncomfortable.

 

“Thestrals only attack if yer a threat. They didn’t haven’t hurt any o’ yeh when they pulled yer carriages three weeks ago,” Hagrid offered when he noticed the looks on their faces.

 

“But it’s different, having to get in their personal space.” Hermione protested, although she was more subdued this year than previously when it came to classes, she still spoke when she found it necessary.

 

Harry agreed completely.

 

“Don’ worry kids. ’ve done it meself,” Hagrid assured once more. “Why don’t yeh start, Harry? Thestrals accept those with a good soul. Just reach out yer hand and wait for it to sniff yeh then lean in, after that stroke em’ and lean in yerself,” he instructed, beckoning Harry to come closer.

 

Harry knew Hagrid meant well, he knew the man probably thought he was doing them all a favor, but he couldn’t stop the panic that washed over him. What if he saw something he was better off not knowing? What if he relived something of his time with the Dursleys? What if the Thestral rejected him?

 

He wanted to say something, to fake sick, to leave. But Hagrid was looking at him with big, hopeful eyes. So he gave in, raised his arm then waited, his other hand subconsciously reaching to his wand pocket in case he needed it.

 

One of the Thestrals noticed him then and approached him when Hagrid nodded at it, it studied him for a moment, tilting its head left and right, before craning its neck and sniffing his hair. Harry froze, heart beating so loud he could hear it. The creature took a step back and Harry thought with horror that it would refuse him, but then he felt the unmissable feeling of leathery skin graze his fingers and heard gasps around him.

 

It felt odd, as if he was touching something made entirely out of skin and bones, the skin was cool and soft to the touch, much to his surprise. The Thestral leaned further into the contact, it’s dark, calculating eyes fixated on his.

 

“Go on then, stroke it,” Hagrid whispered encouragingly with a smile.

 

He moved his fingers cautiously, doing his best not to startle it and was surprised when it made a soft sound and closed its eyes, accepting the caresses.

 

“Bloody hell,” he heard Ron say.

 

He took a deep breath, heart hammering in his throat and stepped closer to it, moving his head very slowly.  _ I must have completely lost it,. _ he thought to himself as he pressed his forehead awkwardly to the thestral’s.

 

Suddenly, he wasn’t scared or anxious anymore, he felt as if he was above the ground, floating between the twisting and illusory branches of the trees, the damp air of the Forest sticking to his skin.

 

_ Fairy lights was the first thing registered. A plethora of pleasant smells hit his nostrils, roasted potatoes and turkey… his brain continued supplying images, he tried to blink away the blurriness in his vision. _

 

_ The crackling of the fire and the distinct sound of laughter. The razing purr of the wind hitting the windows. _

 

_ He came to himself after a couple of seconds, he was sitting on a soft couch in the living room of a house that seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place. He gripped it, feeling the material between his fingers. It grounded him, reminding him why he was there. _

 

_ The memory. _

 

_ The room around him had been decorated thoroughly for the holidays. A Christmas tree flashed in the corner, the lights flickering and showing off the shimmery, dashing red and gold garments it had been decorated with. A crystal star adorned the top of it, shining brighter than the lights beneath it. _

 

_ A mistletoe hung on one of the doors of the cozy living room. More lights hung on the walls and brightened them.  _

 

_ Even nature seemed to have put it’s two cents by hanging frost spikes off the windowsill, the world outside coated in white. The ribbons of the flames in the fireplace kept them warm, there was a red and green sock hung above the fireplace, he blinked… it had his name on it. Which meant- _

 

_ “James, will you bring Harry to the tree? I’d like to take a picture.” A female voice said, Harry’s chest tugged as he recognized it immediately. _

 

_ His mum was leaning against the wall near the entrance with a camera in hand and a dazzling smile, an apron wrapped around her waist. Harry shot up from his seat and walked closer. He wanted to reach out and hug her, but knew he couldn’t. His hand went through her face when he attempted to touch her cheek. _

 

_ “Mum,” he said desperately. She didn’t look up or address him, of course, she couldn’t see him, this was a different frame of time. He didn’t exist here, not like this. _

 

_ It certainly didn’t feel like a memory the way Hagrid had described it, because Harry could see this even though he wasn’t in the room yet, although he suspected he would be soon. _

 

_ This felt more like a gift from the Thestral than a memory, like it had gone back in time and retrieved this moment for him to see and enjoy. Like it soothed damaged souls with a few minutes of happiness they no longer had. _

 

_ James Potter walked in a few seconds later, making flying noises and laughing at the baby in his hands as he whooped with glee at being 'thrown’ in the air and landing in his father’s arms again. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to him that he himself was the baby, of course he was, his parents had only had one child. _

 

_ His forehead was smooth, no scar. _

 

_ “If you drop him one of these days I’m divorcing you.” Lily threatened, but her eyes shone with happiness as she looked at the two of them in their matching Christmas sweaters. _

 

_ “I think you owe me a kiss,” James said, motioning to the mistletoe above them with his eyes and wiggling his eyebrows with a grin. Lily rolled her eyes and leaned in, pressing a soft, chaste kiss into her husband’s lips and then giving Harry’s cheek many kisses. _

 

_ “Now sit next to the tree, both of you, I want a picture,” she said, James pressed a kiss to baby Harry’s chubby hand and walked his way to the tree, carefully sitting down in front it with baby Harry in his lap. _

 

_ His mum pointed the camera at them, making funny faces at him so baby Harry would focus on her and smile instead of trying to touch the decorations. _

 

_ James was in the middle of saying “hey Harry! Look at momma! Look at the camera!” when three other men walked in, laughing at something Harry didn’t know. _

 

_ A much younger looking Remus, Sirius, and Peter were now standing in front of him, Remus complained he was so stuffed he could barely breathe. Harry’s throat clenched painfully. _

 

_ “You’re taking pictures without us? The betrayal. Wotcher, Prongs!” Sirius said as he plopped down next to James and Harry, grinning and posing ridiculously. Remus chuckled and sat down next to them as well, patting the other spot for Peter to sit in. _

 

_ Lily’s smile was so big her eyes crinkled despite her young age as she took pictures of the five of them. All of them looked so young, so careless and free, like they hadn’t known what would happen in less than a year from now. Like they hadn’t known this would be their last Christmas. _

 

_ And of course, they hadn’t. _

 

_ “See Harry? You’re the newest addition to the Marauders.” Remus said, pinching his cheek fondly, baby Harry shot him a toothless smile and nonsensical babbling. _

 

_ “Don’t involve my son in any of your affairs, thank you,” Lily replied, clicking away behind the device. _

 

_ “Come over here, Lily. Charm the camera.” Peter said, and Sirius moved, half sitting on Remus’ lap so Lily could fit next to James. She bewitched it so it would levitate and take a picture in a few seconds, then plopped down next to him. _

 

_ “Say cheese!” Sirius said, wrapping his arms around them as far as he could reach. They all leaned in and smiled brightly. _

 

_ “Cheese!” The shutter went off. _

 

_ Harry didn’t realize he had been crying till the tears slid down his neck. He dried them quickly. This is what he’d had, this is what he’d lost. But at the same time, he was happy to know his parents and their best friends were this happy, that he’d had the privilege of having these people in his life even if it had been for a short moment in  time. _

 

He was suctioned in suddenly and came back out to the woods, hissing at the sun shining in his eyes. His eyes were surprisingly dry, as if what had happened there didn’t exist in this world. As if his vulnerability was a secret the Thestral would keep between them.

 

“Mate, how was it?” asked Ron, who had was clutching his shoulder. Everyone looked at him expectantly.

 

“Brilliant.” He said shakily “absolutely brilliant.”

 

After that, the anxiousness of everyone in the group quickly disappeared. Ron, Neville, Dean, Seamus, and Hermione offered to come next, approaching each one of the creatures, although Hermione seemed somewhat skeptical. Then they followed the steps Hagrid had given them, the five of them were accepted by the winged animals. 

 

Harry felt completely overwhelmed and warm, as if something had filled in his heart and emptied at the same time. He cursed the stars quietly, wondering how he’d had the bad luck of losing all these people. Magnificent, kind individuals that deserved better, that gave their all for those they loved.

 

Seeing Pettigrew like this almost humanized him for Harry, but he couldn’t bring himself to forgive or to care for him. Not after what he’d done to all of them. Not when all of this could be traced back to him. He’d betrayed the first very people who had loved and trusted him unconditionally. Harry wanted to understand he was scared, to sympathize with his fear. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

 

-

 

_ Hermione almost toppled over and found herself in the library. She felt disoriented for a second, then realization hit. This probably meant that what Hagrid had said actually worked, while it was fascinating… it also raised too many questions in her head. She’d have to hit, ironically enough, the library this evening. _

 

_ She frowned, why would her happy memory take place here? Surely she hadn’t been her absolute happiest while studying, that’d be pathetic. Ron would never let her live it down, she’d almost expected she’d relive their first kiss.. or when she’d managed to return her parents’ memories after finding them in Australia nine weeks after the war. _

 

_ “Did you find anything?” She heard. Her ears perked up and she turned around. There, sitting with their backs pressed to a bookshelf were her young self and Harry in what she was almost _

_ certain was their first year. Merlin, this felt surreal. _

__

_ “I’m afraid not.” Her younger self replied, flipping through the pages with determination and her mouth twitched in irritation. She remembered this day, her and Harry had come to the library alone and Ron hadn’t been able to. _

__

_ She didn’t understand why this was the memory that was brought to her, it was supposed to be a happy memory of someone she’d lost. _

__

_ Small Harry sighed and closed the book propped on his skinny legs “I wish we could spend the summer holidays together. I’d love to spend it with you and Ron, you two are my closest friends.” He admitted. _

__

_ She understood as she watched her younger self’s face react to Harry’s words. Little Hermione’s eyes widened and she flushed at Harry’s words. _

__

_ It had been the first time he’d called her his close friend. As a matter of fact, it had been the very first time anyone in her life ever had. She’d always been shunned out by classmates in the muggle world. She was too curious, too eager to learn, too awkward and immersed in her own books, 'a goody two shoes’ or 'know it all’. Her parents had always been loving and supportive, but she couldn’t say the same for the kids at school, she’d been pretty lonely. _

__

_ Hermione remembered she spent that night feeling giddy that Harry had called her his friend. A close one at that, one he trusted and wanted to spend his holidays with. _

__

_ It was the realization that this had meant so much to her at the time and how far they’d come now, how they’d survived a war together against the odds. Or maybe it was the realization that she was seeing a memory of Harry because he’d died… too. Even though he had come back. Because for a few seconds, she had thought he was dead. For a moment, her heart had started mourning him last May even if her brain hadn’t had time to accept it. _

__

_ For a while, she’d lost Harry as well. _

__

_ - _

__

_ “Frank, Frank he’s doing it! He’s walking!” quiet tears slipped from Neville’s eyes as he watched his toddler self walk, albeit wonkily, into his mother’s outstretched arms. His dad was clapping proudly and pressed a kiss to his cheek with a joyful “well done, lad!” _

__

_ His mother held him in front of her face “you are going to be the best boy” she said with a tender voice “and the absolute finest wizard ever, aren’t you? Mommy will be there every step of the way.” _

__

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I’m sorry this took so long! I’ve been doing some traveling lately and couldn’t update earlier. Also, I’m looking for a new beta, if you are one- send me some details about yourself either here or on my tumblr it-started-over-drarry !


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi yes hello, the semester is murdering me, hence my lack of updates. If you’re wondering why this chapter is 2500 words shorter than the rest, it’s because what comes next are very important scenes that I wanted to separate from these ones. I do believe however, that next time I’ll update a lot sooner! 
> 
> I’m loving your comments on each chapter, so please please please leave a comment on this one, and kudos if you enjoyed it! It really helps me out as a new drarry writer and motivates me. 
> 
> This chapter’s questions:  
> 1\. Where are you from?  
> 2\. How did you find this fic? 
> 
> Answer these and add more information about what you liked about the chapter in your comments, I’ll be dedicating next chapter to one of the readers who comments! 
> 
> Last but not least, a massive massive thank you to my lovely Betas, madeoficeandfire and Aspera, also madeoficeandfire / eyelashesonentropy on tumblr, for this story would not be the same without their work and guidance. 
> 
> Please enjoy and review!

Harry had been sitting next to Hermione and Ron on the grass, when he’d heard Terry Boot talking to Malfoy with his chin held high, eyes gleaming.

“Why don’t you try, Malfoy? Let’s see if the Thestral accepts that rotten, _Death Eater_ soul of yours.” He snarled, stepping into Malfoy’s space, who said nothing in return but glared back. Boot pushed him lightly and Malfoy stumbled, taking a few steps from him.

Harry wondered if Boot’s tactic was to pretend he had nothing to do with his father and his lot; if he thought by separating himself from the people he used to spend his time with he’d save himself from what awaited them once this year was over. Truth was, while Boot hadn’t been a Death Eater himself, his father’s role in the war was well known. Alienating himself from it now that it was over and the scales hadn’t tipped in their favour was ridiculous.

Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini pulled out their wands, stepping in between the pair and shielding Malfoy before Harry could even process what had happened. They glared at Boot, daring him to take another step, wands pointing at him.

  
Hagrid reacted then, stomping over with forceful steps that caused some of the creatures behind him to retreat into the safety of the shadows, he snatched Boot with one arm and separated him from Malfoy just as Harry had reached for his own wand.

“Detention, Mr. Boot.” He said angrily, Boot seemed as if he’d argue, gaping indignantly, but one stern look from Hagrid silenced him. “If yeh would like to try-” Hagrid gestured behind him, looking at Malfoy sympathetically, who shrunk into himself and shook his head furiously.

“I’d rather not.” Just as Malfoy looked ready to flee the scene, somehow managing to appear paler than he already was, one of the Thestrals, the smallest one, approached him on its own. Malfoy watched it with wide, fearful eyes.

Harry couldn’t move. This was going to be a disaster.

The Thestral eyed him curiously, examining him from all angles. Harry was certain no one took a breath in the last fifteen seconds as they waited for the inevitable.

But then to everyone’s shock, including Malfoy’s, the creature leaned into him, expecting to be petted.

Malfoy looked petrified, but he stroked the head with a shivering arm and when the thestral didn’t object or react negatively, Malfoy’s body relaxed, he leaned in cautiously, unsurely, till his forehead pressed against the Thestral’s.

Harry felt a swell of emotion in his chest, he wasn’t sure why, but the fact that the thestral had accepted Malfoy of all people, regarding him as a kind soul, had brought up thoughts he did not want to think about. It felt like an intimate moment Malfoy wouldn’t want Harry to witness, so he looked away.

After a few minutes, Malfoy separated from it panting and excused himself quickly, with Parkinson trailing behind him.

Harry wondered what he’d seen.

 

  
Harry tried to catch up with the Patil twins on their way back to the castle, his heart still felt heavy in his chest from everything that had occurred in the span of one morning.

He ended up finding them in the common room, huddled up near the window on the lumpy couch, looking grim. They weren’t saying anything to each other, but Harry could see Parvati’s hand gripping Padma’s tightly in silent support. He sat across from them, leaning his elbows on his knees.

“You alright, Parvati?” He asked, because he didn’t know how else to bring it up.

Parvati didn’t answer him at first, staring out the window with her mouth in a tight line. Her eyes were still bloodshot, whether from shedding tears or avoiding to, he couldn’t be sure. She breathed in and out methodically, as if her body wasn’t doing it instinctively.

“You know, I still expect her to barge into class, apologize for being late and sit down next to me,” Parvati said after a few minutes of silence, pushing her dark hair out of her face with shaky fingers. Harry said nothing; he knew she didn’t need him to. “I sit in our Divination class and put my bag on the seat beside me so I can save it for her. For a moment, I forget… and then it all comes back.” Parvati’s voice broke at the end and her eyes filled with tears again, Padma pressed her lips to her sister’s hair and stroked her arm.

“I see everyone has moved on and I can’t, I can’t no matter how much I try,” Parvati admitted, angrily wiping her tears with the corners of her robes. “I’m supposed to be a Gryffindor and I feel so weak. I can’t accept it.” Harry’s throat tightened when she had to stop so she could cry properly.

“You can,” Harry said after a while. “And you will, one day. Accepting it doesn’t mean you have to forget her. I still mourn the life I could have had with my parents or with Sirius, even though they’re gone. I still think of my mum putting breakfast on the table and my dad asking me about my day. Everyone copes differently.” He reached out and gripped her hand as well, squeezing it tight. He wasn't the best at comforting, but he knew what helped him, and hoped it would be the same for her. “Some avoid thinking about the person, others try to think about them as often as they can to fill in the void they left. It doesn’t make you weak, Parvati.” He didn’t know where all of that had come from, but it seemed to be what she needed, because Parvati squeezed back and leaned into her sister’s shoulder, who shot Harry a grateful smile. He wondered if his words had been something he’d needed to hear himself.

“Thank you, Harry.”

-

“Darling, is something the matter?” Pansy asked for the umpteenth time as she stroked his hair.

“You needn’t worry.” Draco sighed, basking in the sunlight seeping through the curtains of his bed with his head on Pansy’s lap. It reminded him of the start of the sixth year, he’d felt dreadful, hopeless back then. He hadn’t known if he’d make it through that year.

“It accepted you, Draco. When have Boot’s words mattered to you?” He opened his eyes and glared at her.

“It’s not about that, Pans.”

“Then what?” He shifted his head so he was staring out the window next to his head instead of her face.

“Why did it accept me? It shouldn’t have.” He argued, if there was a soul in this school that did not meet the purity requirements it was his. It made no sense. He’d tainted it with all the choices he’d made. “Hagrid probably doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” he muttered.

“I think he does.” Pansy shrugged. “And maybe that Thestral knows more about you than you do. It’s not like you to sell yourself short,” she teased. Draco laughed softly.

“I always knew you had a thing for-”

The door opened in the middle of his sentence to reveal a slightly disheveled Potter. His eyes fell on them and then looked away furiously, a blush creeping on his cheeks. Draco sat up and Pansy smoothed her skirt.

“Should I-” Potter said, eyes looking everywhere but at them.

“It’s fine, Potter. Do come in.” Malfoy said.

“I was just leaving anyways,” Pansy added quietly, grabbing her robe and tie from the bed frame and kissing him on the cheek before leaving the room. Draco raised a brow in surprise at her reaction.

“Er, sorry... didn’t mean to interrupt,” offered Harry, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

“You didn’t.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat and Malfoy looked up again, staring at him expectantly.

“Merlin, Potter. What?”

Harry rolled his eyes and opened his mouth, but seemed to decide against whatever he wanted to say, for he shook his head and met Draco’s gaze with severe determination

“Why didn’t you defend yourself?” He asked, changing the topic. Malfoy’s jaw tightened and he looked away, focusing on his book again.

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.” He deadpanned.

“You know what I mean, Malfoy,” Harry said. “Out there, with Boot. You didn’t even reach for your wand.”

“They want a reason to lock me up, Potter. I’m not going to give it to them.” Harry’s breath hitched. “Furthermore, Boot’s not that much of a bloody idiot to attack me in front of a teacher, and the wand they gave me at the beginning of the year doesn’t do much, either way.” He shrugged a thin shoulder with feigned nonchalance.

Harry bit his lip, suddenly feeling as uncomfortable as Malfoy looked. He supposed Malfoy was right. Harry looked at him, the way he was gripping the edge of his bed sheets particularly tight, how his lip was curled in disdain, a frown settling between his eyes, making him look older. He was the image of vulnerability and anger, Harry thought. Of sheer survival instinct and perhaps the desire to stop fighting. Harry knew what it was like, to lose all purpose to continue but doing it anyways, for others, never for yourself.

He thought of their sixth year, of Malfoy laying defenseless in a pool of his own blood. He wondered if Malfoy was usually threatened by students like he had been by Boot. If he was still defenseless now and his life still depended on the swish of a wand and an incantation.

Harry sighed and opened his trunk with his hand, he rummaged through it, knowing he would regret what he was about to do soon enough. Hermione and Ron would surely be livid about it. He pulled out the lengthy box he’d kept hidden at the bottom of the trunk, beneath the extra blanket he kept for particularly cold winter nights. Malfoy eyed him with confusion, until his eyes fell on what Harry was holding and took in the shape of it.

Grey eyes widened in disbelief as Harry thrust the box in his direction.

“This is yours,” Harry offered. Malfoy was still eyeing the box like it would explode at any given second and kill both of them.

Pale fingers reached for the it tentatively. He opened it carefully and his eyes flashed with an emotion Harry couldn’t place as he stared at his own wand.

“Why are you doing this?” Malfoy asked, voice pitched low. His shoulders were tense and his face was harsh, fingers now gripping the box protectively.

"S' a peace offering, Malfoy." Harry said with a feeling of uneasiness. "We might as well get along if we're going to be roommates an entire year." Harry truly didn't know what had possessed him to do this. The look on Malfoy's face was making him regret his entire life and he briefly pondered if it was too late to change his name and move out of the continent when Malfoy huffed and thrust out his hand, looking decidedly embarrassed but determined.

"I'm not quite sure how to be nice to you, Potter, but I can... try," Malfoy said, elongating the last word. He seemed surprised when Harry chuckled in return and grasped his hand back.

"Me neither, guess we'll have to figure it out." Harry looked at their joined hands, before swallowing and looking away. "Might still have to hex you a couple times for good measure, though." Malfoy smirked and his grip tightened.

"You wish, Potter."

-

"Are those carpets?" Asked Hermione as they went down the stairs and doubled the corner to the common room the next morning, Harry frowned.

"Did someone conjure them?" Dean asked. The rest of the house was standing around the plushy, beige colored furniture, eyeing it with interest. They certainly gave the room a warmer, homier aura.

"I don't think so," Hermione supplied, her bushy brows were drawn together. "Neville tried the other night to conjure more comfortable couches and he couldn't, I couldn't either, the Headmistress said it wasn't allowed and it really isn't."

Harry, while curious, couldn't care less where they had come from as long as they stayed. Fall had begun and the castle was getting colder by the day, which meant they would be turning blue soon if they had nothing that would shield them and radiate warmth. Scotland's winters were unforgiving and no warming charms quite did the job.

"Why, pray tell, are we questioning it?" drawled Zabini as he appeared from behind Malfoy, who was quiet, eyes were darted to the side. "Room's a miserable joke, looks like a prison if you ask me. This is the least they could do."

Harry glared at him; the great tosser, but he couldn’t help but agree.

Still a great tosser, though.

Before he could say anything though, Seamus spoke. "How do we know you and your lot didn't conjure and curse them, eh?" He asked.

"You think we can afford such liberties, Finnigan?" Malfoy broke in, but his tone lacked bite. If anything he sounded annoyed at the accusations. "We couldn't possibly pull such a stunt and get away with it, we are walking on thin ice, as you bloody well know." Seamus glared and grumbled under his breath. Everyone in the room seemed to believe Malfoy, or at least, they knew his claims made sense in more ways than none.

"I say we just let them be." Ron proposed with a shrug, already heading to the door.

  
"But why did they suddenly appear? They weren't here yesterday. I’m sure no one nicked them from their household and put them here either." Hermione argued.

"Tell you what," Ron said decidedly "let's just go to breakfast and we'll search the library as soon as we've got a free period. But let's go, I'm bloody starving." He moaned, clutching his belly.

Hermione seemed to struggle with herself before taking a deep breath and following Ron out of the room. Harry hurried after them. He wondered when his life had taken such an abrupt turn that he now lived in a world where Ronald Weasley promised library dates.

-

"You did what?" Ron and Hermione bellowed from across the table, making the plates and cutlery in their hands clink loudly, Harry cringed as half of the hall turned to look at them.

"Yell louder, would you? I don't think China quite heard you the first time." Harry hissed, avoiding eye contact with the curious stares people around him were shooting them. Ron and Hermione sunk back into their seats, looking rather embarrassed.

And expectant.

"You saw how he didn't have a way of defending himself against Boot, the wand he had didn't respond well to him." He sighed.

"And that's your issue how?" Ron asked, bewildered "I didn't know we felt bad for Malfoy, it's not like the tosser didn't have it coming, is it?" Hermione pursed her lips.

"Harry, Ron's right." She said firmly with a stern look on her face. Harry thought with longing of the days were she would disagree with him out of pure spite, mostly. He thought she'd understand.

"You're the one who told me to be civil!"

"Oh Harry, I didn't mean give him back his wand!" Hermione cried indignantly. Harry scratched his face in frustration. Seconds bled into minutes and the trio remained silent. Harry stared angrily at his meal, his appetite gone.

He heard Hermione give a deep sigh, then she dropped her buttered knife on her toast. "Maybe it wasn't that much of a bad idea, to give Malfoy his wand, that is," she admitted.  
  
"What sort of rubbish is that? Yes, it was!" Ron said through a mouthful of baked potatoes, his appetite seemingly unaffected.

"You could have informed Headmistress McGonagall first," she said, throwing Harry a disapproving look. "However, I know you hadn't quite planned the whole thing, so I guess it's alright. It would help to make Malfoy feel less threatened, wouldn't it? I don't have the energy to be up against the Slytherins again." she explained, bringing her cup to her lips and sipping her tea, then resumed her meal.

"You've both gone mad," Ron declared, stabbing his food grudgingly. Harry grinned at the pair of them.  
-

After a good ordeal of double Potions, in which they had mainly focused on revising important details of past Potions they might see in their N.E.W.T.s, Harry, Ron and Hermione headed for kitchens where they fetched a plate of pastries and ate them with gusto. Then they sat through double Transfigurations. Harry found it impressive that Professor McGonagall still had time to give classes with her Headmistress duties.

"I've got to hit the Library after this." said Hermione, swishing her wand and transfiguring, with unspoken difficulty, a rabbit into a tea cup, and then in reverse.

Harry eyed his tea cup with a frown, it was sporting two bunny ears and he couldn't for the life of him figure out what he'd done wrong; one would think he’d know how to do things like that already. Ron caught his own rabbit a second before it leapt from his table.

"Is this about the suspicious rugs?" Harry asked distractedly, turning his mug-rabbit hybrid back into a full on hybrid. His eyes met the Headmistress', who had undoubtedly caught him carrying a conversation instead of perfecting his technique, if her harsh look was anything to go by. He faked interest in the animal before him.

"Not quite, although I do plan on researching it," replied Hermione, pursing her lips at Ron's attempt, for it had turned his rabbit's fur a different colour. "We do have to sit our N.E.W.T.s this year, in case you've forgotten."

Ron gave Harry a dreading look.

"We're all caught up in our homework, love." He said. Harry resisted the urge to snort, as if that had ever swayed her.

"We've got six years and what we learn this year worth of information to revise. Plus, no matter how little, the others who are repeating the year must have learned something, we're at disadvantage," she announced. Harry raised an eyebrow.

"I think we had more practice than anyone else," he shrugged.

"Shouldn't it be easier if we just asked McGonagall who put them there?"

"I asked the house elves earlier this morning if it had been them, they said they'd received no such order and I don't want to risk-" Harry stopped listening after that, his attention was drawn to the other side of the room, where Malfoy converted his rabbit with grace and ease. He couldn't help but wonder just how much Malfoy may have learned from living in the same house as Voldemort for so long.

Had his dueling skills improved? Could he defend himself better now? Did he know bits of Dark Magic that Harry hadn't even known to be possible? The questions kept replaying in his mind. He wanted to explore the depths of Malfoy’s brain and see what he could find. Answers, details he didn’t know.

He looked away before Malfoy could catch him staring, mind swimming with questions.

  
-

"The whole country lacks finesse," dismissed Draco, dipping his Quill in the black ink and scribbling down a paragraph in his essay. Pansy huffed in annoyance.

"What about France? You speak French." She suggested, passing him a book with a passage about the effects of Gillyweed, Draco seemed to consider this for a moment.

"A lot more worthy, yes," he said, the corners of his lips turned up. Pansy wrapped her robe tighter around herself, shivering and cursing as the air of the upcoming winter slowly seeped into the walls of their common room and chilled their bones.

His fingers touched the wand in his pocket and he felt his heartbeat steady, reassured. This morning he'd woken up fully expecting it to be gone, that he'd dreamed it, that Potter had changed his mind and snatched it from him. He'd dreamt of the first time he'd held it between his fingers, how his magical core had connected to it immediately, bonding him with his now main protection, with the closest thing he'd ever come to a soulmate. He'd dreamt of the months of emptiness and hopelessness without it, when he had no means of defending himself other than with a wand that didn't respond to him.

Every spell he'd cast with it had felt graceless.

Unworthy. Powerless.

He'd woken up that morning with his pulse racing so fast he could barely lift his arm, but it had been there, waiting for him as he had left it. He'd felt something in his chest unclench, as if a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. As if he was whole again.

So that midnight, when the castle was quiet and serene and Draco woke to the sound of Potter's nightmares, he sympathized, he understood. So he didn't huff in annoyance, he didn't swish his wand angrily. He got up from his bed, the cold night making goosebumps rise on his skin and his breath come out in short, condensed puffs. He knelt down in front of Potter and watched his troubled face, the sweat that had beaded up on his forehead, the scrunch of his eyes, the scared whimpers.

He cast a few Charms to accommodate Potter and clean him, like he'd done before. The idiot had fallen asleep with his glasses forgotten on his nose, now they were awkwardly perched on the bridge of it, Draco hesitated, then reached out and removed them as gently as he could. Potter stirred, murmuring something under his breath and Draco froze.

He waited a second or two, when green eyes didn't flutter open, he breathed out in relief and folded the glasses, laying them on the now fresh pillow next to Potter. The charms Draco performed seemed to improve the quality of Potter's sleep, for he didn't stir again and other than the slight frown between his eyebrows and pants of breath, he appeared tranquil.

It seemed intrusive, to watch Potter when he was this vulnerable and defenseless. He knew Potter would never want Draco to see him this way. Draco, however, had never truly had the chance to observe Potter in a calm demeanor, for the boy snarled and scowled whenever Draco was around. For good reason. It was sort of fascinating, to be able to look at him and focus on his face without angry insults or furious glares being thrown at his face. Potter's expression had smoothed out now and Draco couldn't help but notice again how much younger he looked this way. When he was asleep and not carrying the weight of the Wizarding World on his shoulders.

Admittedly, Draco had tried to hate him. He'd spent the past few months in his brain willing himself to despite him, for putting his father in Azkaban, for always being what Draco had wanted to be himself, for being favored by most, for making him feel like a coward, for leaving Draco without his wand for so long. But he couldn't find it in himself to feel like that. Not after Potter had saved his life and then the world from the madman, not after Potter had kept him out of imprisonment.

He'd always wondered if things would have been different, had Harry accepted his hand, had he been better and made more honorable choices. But he'd destroyed those chances in his envy beyond recognition.

"He's just a boy," Draco recalled hearing his mother say in their living room at Malfoy Manor, her eyes brimming with tears after he'd been set the Task in sixth year. Now he realized Potter had been just a boy too, and now this war had been forged, carved into his identity. And it would forever haunt him, just as it haunted Draco.

Thinking back on it, Draco now knows he was far too young to have been put in such a situation. His days had been numbered the day he took The Mark, perhaps even the day he was born a Malfoy. But then something had happened, the stars had changed their alignment and let him live.

Sometimes he wished they hadn't.

With one last look at him, Draco closed the curtains surrounding Potter's bed with a swish of his wand and sat down on his own, his elbows propped on his knees. He couldn't sleep, not anymore. He looked at his shelf for any possible reads that could distract him, but something else caught his eye, barely visible coming out of one of his textbooks.

He snatched the forgotten piece of parchment he'd left inside the book while doing one of his essays a week before, and grabbed for his quill and ink inside his school bag. Using said book for prop, he sat down on his chair and began writing, with no particular topic in mind.

-  
Harry fastened his shoes; he'd promised to hit the library with Hermione in thirty minutes, so they could get in a couple of hours of work before dinner. Malfoy was laying in bed, his ankles crossed, fringe falling on his forehead, he bit his lip in concentration as he wrote something down, which Harry noticed he'd been doing a lot the past couple of days.

"I'm off to the library," Harry said, wrapping his scarf around his neck. Malfoy made an acknowledging sound but didn't look up.

“Should I fetch a book for you?” He asked before he could overthink it and talk himself out of it. Malfoy stopped writing at this and looked up, expression changing from one of confusion to amusement in a matter of seconds.

"My, my Potter, I didn't know we were at the wear-each-other's-scarves stage," Draco said with a smirk.

Harry looked down and saw silver and green adorning his neck. He realized, to his very horror, that in his staring he'd grabbed Malfoy's scarf instead of his. He felt his face flush scarlet.

"What's next? Should we braid each other's hair?" the blond continued smugly. Harry glared half-heartedly and pulled it off, trying very hard not to notice how good it smelled. Cinnamon. Christ, Draco Malfoy smelled like sweet cinnamon mixed with pines.

"Shut up, Malfoy," he grumbled, placing it back where it was next to his on the rack and wrapping his own on his neck.

"It suits you, though," Malfoy said nonchalantly. Harry felt his face heat further "We could have made a Slytherin out of you, after all," he said.

Harry grinned. "The Sorting Hat wanted to place me there, actually." Malfoy's jaw dropped.

"What."

Bingo.

"I asked to be in Gryffindor." Malfoy threw him an unimpressed look. "What? I'd had a bad impression of Slytherin house." Harry said, putting his hands up.

Malfoy snorted. "Somehow I can't imagine us being in the same house and not blowing up the castle."

"Yeah," Harry chuckled. "That would have been a disaster."

Malfoy smiled and shook his head. He looked out of the window, into the castle grounds welcoming the cold weather and promising storms of snow.

Harry gripped the door handle, and looked back at Malfoy. “You could try wearing the Gryffindor scarf, in the spirits of Inter-House unity." Malfoy laughed, actually- genuinely laughed, Harry felt his stomach flip. Bloody hell, he'd humored Draco Malfoy; and it didn't feel nearly as unnatural as it should have.

He looked good like that, Harry thought before he could stop himself. Malfoy always looked tense, his jaw set, his eyes wary. Harry could not blame him, for he figured he himself must mirror that look. Malfoy may have been in the wrong side of the war, something Harry couldn't help but remember every time he absently scratched his forearm. But Harry thought perhaps he'd come out of it just as scarred as he had. He looked relaxed and- attractive, when he gave himself the luxury of laughing. Shoulders hunched, head thrown back and cheeks coloured. Harry was oddly pleased to have been the one who caused it.

"I'm not sure red's my colour, Potter."  
  
It was only later, when meeting Hermione, that Harry realized he had never spoken about his sorting before.  
  
-

"They just popped into existence, just like that! No swish of wand, no words, nothing!" Hermione fussed, walking towards the library at a ridiculously fast pace that Harry was struggling to keep up with. Doubling the corners with speed and almost crashing into other students.

"’Mione, maybe it was just a test from the Headmistress, maybe she's taken pity on us." Hermione's step faltered and she scowled at him.

"We were sitting in that common room and out of nowhere, the lumpy couches became luxurious, silken and soft. They bloody well expanded in size with us on them. There is something else to this we haven't figured out yet." She assured him, with that glint in her eye he'd learned to never question. Harry was certain he'd never heard her say 'bloody' before.

Harry had come out to the common room to find it in murmurs and hysterics, since the couches, previously uncomfortable and filthy, had transformed in what looked like soft brown couches pulled out from those magazines Aunt Petunia used to read. Hermione, once again, had become obsessed with the situation.

"Tonight we will find something in that library even if it's the last thing we do."

"I thought we were going to study? You seemed to think we were behind as it was," he asked. A muscle worked in Hermione's jaw, apparently not liking having her words thrown back at her. "Why does this bother you so much?" he insisted. She stopped walking.

"Because I'm tired." Harry frowned. "The Headmistress placed us all in one house and wouldn't tell us why, she made us stay in an unfit common room that cannot be charmed or changed. We fought the war, didn't we? You'd think that would earn us a fireplace, anything! But no, instead, she did all of this and won't tell us a thing. Why? I'm tired of riddles, Harry. I've spent too long solving riddles and I want some peace to think about what I'm going to do!" Hermione yelled. Harry's eyes widened, he tried to reach out and touch her arm, but she stepped back.

"I just wanted normality for once! I wanted to feel back at home here in the castle like we used to. I wanted to be a student who doesn't have to worry about anything but her N.E.W.T.s! But everything feels foreign now, everything's different. It feels like they don't even want us here anymore." Her voice broke and she surrounded herself with her arms, blinking away the tears that had formed furiously.

Harry had never been the most observant person; he blamed it on the Dursleys, really. As a child, one observes and asks eagerly, parents usually answer- even the most pointless questions. Harry had never had that. He was taught to keep his eyes down and not ask, not wonder. But even he could tell that this, all of it, was rooted deeper than this riddle that Hermione spoke of.

"You're scared you don't have a safe home, is that it?" Hermione's lip trembled.

"My parents, they- my parents are just starting to remember me, I'll probably have to move out to the Magical World, I don't know where I'll go- I just wanted peace of mind to decide-" Harry closed the distance between them and hugged her, she pressed her face into the crook of his neck, shivering.

"Do you honestly think Molly Weasley won't have you in her home?" Harry stroked her hair. "Do you even doubt you'll make the right choice when it comes to your future? It won't be a riddle, ‘Mione. Even if it is, blimey... Hermione, you're the reason the three of us are alive. You'll manage. You're obsessing over this because you're scared to think of what the future holds, but I think you'll be more than alright." He felt her smile against his neck as she sniffled softly.

Eventually, she stepped back and smoothed her robes with her hand.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you," she muttered.

Harry grinned "I yelled at you plenty in our fifth year, didn't I? We're not even close to even."

They got a decent amount of work that night. Hermione seemed much calmer and in higher spirits. Ron even joined them an hour into their session. Harry stared at his friends fondly as Hermione rolled her eyes and scratched a sentence off of Ron's History Of Magic essay. There was a time in his life where Harry wondered if he would ever see this again and yet, here he was with his two best friends at his side.

-

September bled into October, to which followed October's first fortnight. Between dubious amounts of homework, reviewing sessions that Hermione had strong armed both him and Ron into and occasional Quidditch on Sunday mornings, Harry didn't particularly have time for anything else. He'd actually made significant progress and was feeling quite confident about his studying technique for their N.E.W.T.s, Hermione had insisted they rewrite their (her) most important notes that she'd kept over the years in muggle notebooks; insisting they were easier to store and carry around. So they'd each ordered the needed amount of notebooks for each subject and set to work once they'd received them in the post.

The teachers seemed insistent in reminding them that no matter the circumstances, they were still to sit their tests just as everyone else in the years before them had. Harry was actually trying this year to make pristine, informative notes so he wouldn't have to rely so much on Hermione's. He had also taken to reading in a futile attempt to distract himself from dwelling on concerning matters, such as how he found himself staring at Malfoy with an alarming frequency. The git was just interesting, is all. He handled himself with a grace and poise that left Harry wondering whether his childhood had insisted of putting a book on his head and balancing it as he strode from one end of the room to the other. Malfoy always seemed controlled, precise and calculated. Harry couldn't help but find it a sharp contrast to himself. He'd spent a great deal of his sixth year following Malfoy's footsteps, but he'd never allowed himself (or even thought of) looking at him in a different light.

The autumn season had left the castle grounds in a harvest of coloured leafs. The shorter days and longer nights had given the halls a cozier, lazier feeling. The air was cool and crisp, tingling his face as he walked with Luna towards The Three Broomsticks. She'd positively beamed at him the moment he'd asked her if she fancied a butterbeer after a Friday afternoon of excruciating boredom and an evening of similar expectations.

She chatted with him airily as they strolled down the path. Harry glanced at her earrings made out of dangling dried figs and felt a smile tug at his lips, glad to see Luna truly never changed. It was oddly comforting. How she hadn't let the war and all that had happened to her misshape her personality and what she loved. How she still presented herself in bright colourful fabrics and eccentric accessories.

The gloomy sky threatened with rain and they walked into The Three Broomsticks just as the first few drops fell on them. They found a small, secluded table for two and Luna took a seat as Harry went to fetch two butterbeers.

"Have you had the Thestral class with Hagrid yet? I thought it was quite lovely." Luna asked after taking her first sip. Harry swallowed nervously, his finger tracing the brim of his glass.

"Er.. yeah I suppose." He mumbled, not really willing to speak of that at the moment. "I thought it was only for eighth years?"

"Ah, well, seventh years were in the war too. I think it was about that." Harry nodded.

"Your eyes look strikingly green today." she commented serenely. He scratched his cheek.

"Er.. are they? I thought they were always green."

"Oh they are, but when something's making you happy, they look particularly bright," Luna quipped, taking another sip of her beer.

"Is there now?" He decided to humour her. "Maybe it's the whole there's-no-longer-a-madman-trying-to-kill-me issue." Luna's eyes sparkled and she hummed on her glass, licking the foam from her lips.

"Then again, it might be some sort of magical creature following me around and making sure I'm happy," he teased.

"Oh, don't be silly, there's no such thing." he shook his head with a small smile, Luna always managed to uplift his spirits even without particularly trying to.

"It's rather nice seeing you this way, regardless." Something clenched painfully in his gut at the way she smiled at him, she had so much to be resentful about. She had spent months locked in a dungeon, starved, tortured. All because of him, all because Voldemort had wanted to kill him. But she didn't, she still treated him the very same way she had when he'd first met her, with a curiousness and oddity that he found ridiculously charming, but didn't deem himself worthy of anymore.

She still smiled at him from across the hall, kept him updated with the articles of The Quibbler, even offered him help with his homework from time to time. She still surrounded herself in a bubble where only good and magic and bloody fairy dust existed. Harry wanted to know how, even if it wasn't any of his business.

"How do you do it?" He found himself asking as she was starting a conversation about an article she'd read describing mermaids and whether he, based on his experience in the lake during fourth year's Triwizard Tournament, agreed with the presented information.

"What do you mean?" she replied, blinking at him.

God, Harry was such a bloody arse, he was. He'd asked her for beer and instead of keeping a light hearted conversation he was about to invade her privacy. Harry wondered idly how being this rash and reckless hadn't killed him yet. He grit his teeth.

"You... after all that happened, how come none of it changed you?"

Luna put down her glass, her mouth in a tight line; she was absently playing with her bracelet, turning it over on her wrist.

"I wake up in that dungeon sometimes," she said after a while, still not looking at him. It took a minute for Harry to understand what she meant. When he did, he felt a shiver run up his spine "I open my eyes in the middle of the night and when I see nothing but dark, I think I'm still there." Her voice wavered, her eyes no longer bright but icy. Harry nodded shakily.

"I'm sorry... I-I should have-"

"That's alright," she interrupted, far too quickly for it to be alright.

"It isn't, though."

"Why do you say that?"

"Isn't it bloody obvious? Everything that happened is my fault, every death, every person who was tortured, if I'd just surrendered to him, let him kill me in the first year-" Luna grabbed his hand from across the table, squeezing it right.

"You couldn't have changed that," she said sternly. Harry shook his head; if he hadn't let Wormtail live, none of this would have happened "You did everything you could."

"How can you say that?" he asked, desperate and rather hysterically, his eyes prickled and voice shaking. "You were kept in a dungeon for months, tortured-"

"And I'm not angry at you for it. It'd be ridiculous to be mad at you for something you couldn't control, wouldn't it?" Harry told himself he wouldn't cry, not now, not there. "The war would have continued whether you lived or died, Harry. He would have done the same awful things he did. You're only one person."

"I don't know how everyone's managed to move on so quickly. How can I move on when all those people fought for freedom and peace they didn't live to see? When they died because of me and the mistakes I made? How could I possibly forget their memory that way?" he asked angrily.

"You don't dishonour your dead by moving on, Harry. You dishonour them by forgetting what their love taught you."

Harry couldn't help but think of how thoughtful and brilliant Luna was; she was a human being that was constantly ridiculed and belittled, called loony for being different than the rest, for thinking outside the box and being open to a larger world of possibilities, but she was still wiser than most. He stared at her, mouth agape.

"The people that died in that war, they died because they fought for what they believed in." It was a truth Harry found difficult to accept, no matter how many times people around him repeated it. He still felt responsible, still wished he could have done more.

"How is it going? Living with Draco."

Taken aback by the sudden change of subject, there wasn’t much Harry could say besides: "Er, well... it's not as bad as I thought it'd be." Luna nodded and took another sip of her beer. Her words replayed in his mind and he paused mid sip.

"Did you just call him Draco?" Harry almost expected her to be taking the piss.

"Well that's his name, isn't it?" she frowned at him, as if his question was ridiculous and it wasn't his place to be bewildered.

"Didn't know you two were on a first name basis, is all."

"Draco and I had quite some time to hang out during the months I spent at the Manor." she said fondly, a soft smile on her face. The look on Harry’s must have shown his shock at her words.

"He's very misunderstood, you know," Luna said sternly, bloody hell, she looked offended. "He'd bring me food sometimes, he'd stuff it in his pockets and bring it to me in secret." Harry could not believe what he was hearing.

"He even brought me a blanket, once." she continued.

"Well that's just the bare minimum isn't it?"

"Is it? If he'd done more, You-Know-Who or Bellatrix would have tortured him, and me as well. He would have probably killed me, actually." Harry winced, his heart clenching at the mere thought of Luna dying. Luna, who had always loved and supported him. Luna, who'd always believed in him, blindly, fiercely.

"He'd come down and keep me updated on the deaths too." Luna started playing with her bracelet again, snapping it against the pale skin of her wrist. "It was the only thing that kept me sane throughout all of it, no matter how little it was. Knowing Ginny, Neville, my father and the three of you were alive meant more to me than he'll ever know. He did what he could." she insisted, her big eyes shone with tears.

Harry didn't know if he could forgive him the way Luna had, didn't know if he had it in him. But he'd been lying to himself too long, denied himself that he'd been looking at Malfoy, allowing himself to stare, looking forward to their small talks in between getting dressed during the morning or going to sleep at night. He wished he was angrier at him than he actually was. He wished he could hate him, despise him for all eternity. He wished it didn't matter to him if Malfoy rotted in Azkaban. But he'd always cared, hadn't he? In a fucked up, twisted way. He'd always been drawn to Malfoy.

Perhaps he'd always had faith in him, perhaps that's why he'd come back for him and hadn't let him burn to death. But he'd never dared acknowledge any of it, not until now, because actually hearing it from the mouth of someone else made it real. Real and terrifying and confusing and everything Harry wasn't ready for it to be. In the Fiendfyre, he had only thought of bringing back Malfoy, he'd turned around without a second thought. And Malfoy had seen him and immediately raised his arm, like he'd known Harry was coming back for him. Truth be told, Harry didn't know if he would have come back, had it only been Crabbe and Goyle. These thoughts had plagued Harry's mind ever since he'd seen Malfoy lower his wand, but he'd always pushed them back, kept them for a day in which his life wasn't in the line and he had bigger issues to concern himself with.

"Shall we go back? It's getting dark." Luna suggested, mercifully bringing him out of his thoughts.

"Yeah," said Harry, getting up and smoothing his robes. "Yeah, let's go." Luna grinned at him, linking her arm with his and leading them home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! <3 read this chapter’s questions above.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I really loved all your feedback in chapter three! As promised, here are the the lovely readers that this chapter is dedicated to: Serpensprincess for their constant comments and kindness , Hononotenshi for their beautiful comment and the way they read between the lines and firesandflowers for their dedication and understanding of this work! 
> 
> If you are wondering how to get next chapter dedicated to you, all you’ve got to do is answer the chapter’s questions or basically leave a review! 
> 
> 1\. What’s your favorite quote from this fic? 
> 
> Last but not least, a massive massive thank you to my lovely Betas, madeoficeandfire and Aspera, also madeoficeandfire / eyelashesonentropy on tumblr, for this story would not be the same without their work and guidance.  
> Please enjoy and review!

The second time it happened, Draco truthfully hadn't seen it coming. He'd been going back up from the library after an evening of studying, sporting a throbbing headache as it was, his eyelids leaden from overuse. He hadn't heard the sadistic laughing and the swish of robes in time to protect himself. There had been no witnesses either; the ghosts of the castle had retreated elsewhere, the students presumably in the Great Hall. He hadn't had time to see who had done it, for it had started and ended without him getting a look at them. A temporary _Blinding Curse_ , he reckoned.  He had tried calling for help, but no words had came out. A _Silencio_ as well, then.  
  
His knees had struck the ground when he’d been promptly tripped, his chin had followed shortly after, scratching against the stony floors of the castle and splitting painfully. Everything that had occurred afterwards was a blur of blood and poorly aimed punches, along with his pathetic attempts to defend the last of dignity. He'd counted two sets of knuckles and a powerful leg slamming repeatedly against his abdomen in the midst of it.    
  
When it was over, they'd left him on the ground, his face had been (presumably) beaten to a pulp and he'd almost suffocated on the blood coming out of his nose, but he'd summoned the energy to crawl towards his wand, _scourgify_ his nose of the blood and head back to his dorm once his vision had returned.  
  
He wondered who could have schemed the whole fiasco. They had waited for him to not be in the company of Pansy or Blaise, made sure the halls were empty. They had cast the necessary amount of charms so Draco would be helpless, wandless and no one could hear him. It hadn’t been a spur of the moment decision.  
  
As he reached the common room, his muscles were twitching and the pain near his ribs was acute, leaving him out of breath and making his eyes water. His bottom lip throbbed painfully; the cut invaded his mouth with a bitter, copper taste. The vision on his left eye was blurry and the lid was swelling, confirming his suspicions of a black eye.  
  
With sheer power originated from fear of being found in this state and a pause every few intervals of time, he managed to get to his room. He avoided the bed, knowing he wouldn't be able to get back up if he collapsed on it now. Instead, he fetched a package he'd ordered two days after his first attack from under his bed. Hesitantly, he laid on it, his hand gripping his ribs, hissing in pain as he did so. He pulled out his copy of _A Guide to Injuries and their Respective Spells_ and opened it, a shaky finger skimmed through the index, searching for the correct chapter.  
  
He turned on page three hundred and forty seven, paragraph five.  
  
**Brackium Emendo:** (classification~ _Charm_ )  with the purpose of mending broken bones that suffer a severity that goes beyond the works of _Episkey_ (only effective for minor injuries, see paragraph two). If the spell is executed improperly, the targeted bones will be removed rather than fixed. If such an incident occurs, Skele-Gro can be used to re-grow said bones (see page 203, paragraph four for more information on this potion).  
  
Hand movement: Point Wand at targeted area.  
  
Draco's heart leapt in his throat as he read, he didn't have any _Skele-Gro_ at hand, so if he failed- he could quite possibly either die, or have to go to the Hospital Wing with a couple missing ribs. He wasn't quite sure which one was worse.  
  
" _You've always been good at Charms,_ " he told himself, as he discarded his robes and opened four buttons of his white shirt. He picked up his wand and took a deep breath, pointing it to the center of his chest. He winced as he spotted the nasty bruising going from his belly button up to his chest. Just as he was about to say the incarnation, his eyes fell on paragraph eight on the same page.  
  
**Ferula:** (classification~ _Charm_ ) used to bandage and splint broken bones, along with easing the pain in the injured area. This charm will not target bruising, if present (see page 103, paragraph two for Bruise-Healing spells).    
  
Hand Movement: Tap targeted area with Wand. (See pages 07-53 for graphic descriptions of the different Wand Movements and their Executions).  
  
_That_ , seemed a hell lot easier and less risky. So Draco opted for it, he stuffed his tie in his mouth, tapped his chest with his wand and bellowed " _Ferula_!"  
  
There were two distinct snaps and Draco howled in pain, most of it muffled by the fabric on his mouth. Then he felt a white bandage materialize and wrap around his chest and strap it tightly- but comfortably- just as it came, the pain was gone. He sighed in relief.  
  
With quick efficiency and a determination to end this as soon as possible, he turned to page 103 and found a charm for bruising.  
  
He tapped his chest again (as instructed) with a " _Livor reparo_!" and watched the bruising that still peaked from under his bandages disappear. With a satisfied smirk, he buttoned his shirt again, pulled up his sleeves and went back to the index of the book.  
  
\-    
  
Harry was thankful the Common Room was empty once he got there. After dropping Luna off at The Great Hall, he wasn't sure he wanted to deal with much talking at the moment. He'd feared Ron and Hermione would be waiting for him there and they'd bombard him with questions as soon as they got a glimpse of the look on his face.

He loosened his tie with a sigh, craning his neck till he heard a satisfying pop. He opened the door to his dorm room and stopped dead on his tracks as he registered the sight in front of him.

Draco Malfoy sitting on his bed, with a bloody nose, purple eye and split lip, from what he could see. His shirt and blond hair were sweaty and coated with blood, as was his hand. There was a book spread on his lap that Harry didn't immediately recognize as any of their school books. Malfoy noticed him then and halted his movements, looking absolutely petrified . He turned around briskly, pulling out his wand, fully expecting to see an attacker in the other end of the room, but found it empty.  
  
Harry’s legs seemed too frail to hold up the entirety of his torso, so he had to rely on the pristine doorknob and the edge of the door for support. Malfoy hadn't made a move either, entirely waiting on his reaction. He took in the disheveled state of the man before him once more.  
  
"You... you were attacked." Harry said, his mouth numb.

 

-

 

Malfoy's eyes flashed and he clicked his tongue. "Brilliant deduction, yes. Now leave, if you don't mind." Potter looked truly aghast at the confirmation. And Draco, clinging to his last shred of dignity, refused to wipe the trail of blood that was sliding down his neck from his nose.  
  
"I truly wonder why you're so shocked. I'm not exactly Student of the Year, am I?" Draco snarled. Potter took two tentative steps towards him and Draco flinched back, cursing not having shut his curtains when he'd had the time.    
  
"How can you still be such a bloody prick when you're this close to death? Merlin."

 Draco snorted, still eyeing him warily as Potter stepped closer to him, stopping right in front of him. "Death? Dare I hope..." He murmured, the smirk fell off his face when he looked at Potter, who hadn't found it funny in the slightest.  
  
"You need to go to the Hospital Wing."  
  
"Circe, go be Saviour Potter somewhere _else_ ." Potter glared at him, but didn't say a word, instead he perched on the edge of the bed and snatched the book from his hands, bold and annoying as you please.  
  
"In the name of- _give that back_!" Potter raised his wand and pointed it at him, holding the book out of his reach. Draco gaped at him.

"What are you, twelve?" he hissed. "Potter, the ever-so-noble Gryffindor attacking an injured, unarmed man." his smirk returned. "Who will protect the people when the heroes break the law?" Potter gave him a long, suffering look. Draco was getting irritated, he hurt all over and if that wasn’t enough, Potter had to see him like this. Weak. Humiliated. Vulnerable.

 "Stop being a dramatic ponce for two seconds, will you?" he flipped through the pages, till he landed on page 177, his finger pointing to paragraph five. He read it with a furrowed brow.  
  
"As much as I love our little chats, my nose does continue to bleed as we speak, so if you wouldn't mind giving that back-"  
  
"I'm going to help you," Potter replied nonchalantly, not even bothering to look up from the book.  
  
"I hardly think you are, now hand me my book." Draco tried to grab for it again. The sudden movement made more blood gush out of his nose, it dripped on his pants.

 "I found it!" Potter said, pointing to the charm. " _Nasum intacta prodis._ " He shifted his body closer to Draco's, but his bravado seemed to deflate as he did.  
  
"What," Draco bit out.  
  
"I'm pants at these sorts of spells, you see."

 Draco bristled. "And that's supposed to comfort me how, exactly?"  
  
Harry tilted his head to the side. "Er, I've got good intentions?"  
  
"So did Christopher Columbus when he found the Americas, but you can see how that ended up for _them_ ." Harry would have lied if he said hearing those words coming from Draco Malfoy's mouth didn't leave him gobsmacked.  
  
"Draco Malfoy, knowing about Muggle History? Barmy." He grinned.  
  
"Bugger off, will you?" Draco muttered, certain a flush had flashed across his features, still visible under the bruising. Truth was, Draco had taken to reading in the months after the war. It provided him solitude and a distraction. Potter lifted his arm again, pointed his wand and said the incarnation. Draco squeezed his eyes shut, fully expecting the worst, but then his nasal cavity cleared of all blood, like it had never been there in the first place. Draco took a deep, fortifying breath and it stopped throbbing all at once.  
  
"Thank you."

Potter nodded. There was still dry, crusty blood stuck to his skin, so Potter lifted his wand again and cast a _Tergeo_ , relieving him of it.  
  
After that, he set off to find spells for the black eye and split lip, he worked quietly and got the job done despite his clumsiness. There was a particular moment in which Draco had stopped breathing all together, because Potter had deemed it necessary to examine the black eye with unnerving proximity, breaking into Draco's personal space. Which, naturally, had left him all sorts of flustered and flabbergasted. He could feel the puffs of breath from Potter's lips. Salazar's beard, someone ought to teach Potter proper _etiquette_ , so Draco would never be reduced to counting sheep in his head in a futile attempt to not embarrass himself. The whole situation had agitated him, he was not keen on a repeat.  
  
"All done," said Potter, shutting the book and shifting back from Draco.  
  
"Thank you." If he noticed the stiffness in Draco’s voice, it didn’t affect his resolve. Potter didn't make to leave, but was staring at him expectantly.

Bloody noisy Gryffindor.

 "Why did you not want go to the Hospital Wing?" Potter asked when he seemed to notice Draco wouldn’t take the bait.

"That's none of your concern."

"Like hell it isn’t. You're my roommate and I healed you."  
  
Draco raised a brow. "You healed me so you could interrogate me?" He could hear Potter gritting his teeth.  
  
"No, I healed you because I wanted to. Now answer my question."

 Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair, surrendering to the cause, knowing Potter wouldn't let him hear the end of it otherwise.  
  
"If I showed up to the Hospital Wing with broken ribs-" This made Potter's attention snap to his chest and his eyes widened when he spotted the bandages. "- A black eye, bruised and with a split lip, they would have asked questions as to why- or rather how- it happened."  
  
"Exactly, because you have to report what happened."

 Draco gave him a long look. "Hardly," he said drily.  
  
Potter frowned, Draco could see the determination in his eyes, the one he'd named _The Insufferable Gryffindor Look_ a while back. "Why the hell not?"  
  
"No one believes a Slytherin that cries wolf, Potter, much less a _Death Eater._ "

 Comprehension dawned on Potter's face and a muscle in his jaw twitched. "You think they'll blame you for it."  
  
"Correction. I know they will." Potter looked away, seemingly troubled with himself. Then he looked back at Draco so fast the blond worried if he'd given himself whiplash.  
  
"Is that why you own this book? This isn't the first this has happened?" He inquired, his voice sounded far angrier than Draco had expected it to.

"Once again, extraordinary deduction skills, Granger must be rubbing off on you." He hoped Harry would ignore that he had just admitted Hermione Granger was brilliant.

"I assume she takes her affinity for brutal force after you?" It took him a second to understand what Draco meant, and he threw his head back and laughed.

"Merlin, she got you so good." Potter wheezed, Draco rolled his eyes, then gave a small smile despite himself. Potter grinned at him, but Draco didn't have time to dwell on the oddness of Harry Potter smiling at him so openly and genuinely, because he frowned again as his eyes fell on the bandages.  
  
"Who did it?" Potter asked.

 Draco shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know," he replied.

  
"Must you always be so damn difficult?"  
  
"I mustn't, but it soothes me." Draco took a deep breath. "Whoever did it cast a Silencing Charm and Blinding Curse, then tripped me. Cue to me falling arse over tit on the floor and them pouncing on me, all I know is it was at least two. I truly haven't a clue."     
  
"Blimey- Malfoy... fuck." Potter looked exasperated. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up to a new extreme.  
  
"Just... let it go, Potter. I don't want to make a fuss about it."

 Potter eyed him for a moment, before nodding sharply, perhaps out of pity.  "Under one condition."  
  
"Good Lord. What would that be?" Draco truly wasn't accustomed to Gryffindor traditions. Was he expected to break bread every Sunday with Potter in return for his secrecy?

"If it happens again, you'll tell me."

Draco was displeased and entirely unenthusiastic about it, but he agreed.  
  
"Can I have my book now?" Potter snatched it from where he'd left it on the corner of the bed and passed it to him. Without thinking, Draco reached out for it with his left arm, the one bearing the Dark Mark.  
  
\-    
  
Subtlety was never Harry's strength. He knew this, everyone did. But he couldn't even pretend to tear his eyes away, or cough awkwardly and claim he needed to go to bed. He was staring at it, open mouthed.  
  
It was still as ugly and twisted as he remembered it, covering the pale skin of Malfoy's forearm. However, with Voldemort gone, it lacked a certain ferocity and threat. Still, it was no ordinary Dark Mark, for it was adorned with small flowers of different shades of pastel pinks, white and lilac. The flowers had no stems and varied in species and size, but were surrounded by tiny leaves. If Harry remembered his flowers correctly from summers spent as Aunt Petunia’s gardener, most of them were narcissas. The snake and skull had been coloured a plummy rose colour.

Harry found it hard to breathe. He may have produced a sound of distress, which brought Malfoy out of his shock. Malfoy flinched back as if burned, making to hide his arm behind his back. Harry wasn't having any of it, before he could think of what it meant, he reached for Malfoy's wrist and clasped it firmly, pulling it back to him to observe the tattoo fully, studying it from different angles.

 

-

  
"Let me go." There was a pause, but Potter did not make to release his arm. Draco wasn’t sure he’d even heard him.  "Just because you healed me it doesn't mean you have carte blanche to touch me, Potter," he snarled.

This snapped Potter out of his thoughts and he flinched, letting go of Draco’s arm abruptly. There was a long silence, neither of them dared to speak, not entirely sure where they stood with one another.

 

-

 

“You- you got a tattoo over it, then?" Even though he wasn’t touching him anymore, Harry noticed his rapid breathing, which belied the imperious, arrogant look of his jutted up chin.  
  
Malfoy nodded. Harry's hand twitched at his side, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He looked paler than Harry had ever seen him, perhaps a bit green as well. His body seemed to be in a wary stance, as much as he could muster while sitting down. The fingers of his free hand flexed as if he was holding a wand and he straightened up. He remained passive, though... but his composure seemed to be slipping.

 “Can I…” He cleared his throat. “Can I see it?”

 Malfoy didn’t reply.

 “If that’s okay?” he added as an afterthought.

 Malfoy looked at him, almost like he was trying to figure him out. Like Harry troubled and confused him just as much.

 The thing is, Harry couldn’t blame him. Yes, they were two boys who had hated each other and made each other’s live impossible. But that was _nothing_ , that was childish competitions and vindictive rivalries. They’d fought in a _war_ that had almost killed them both, they were on opposite sides of it.

 And yet, the universe kept trying to pull them together like two opposite poles.

 Malfoy didn’t speak this time either, but he extended his arm. Harry stared at it, trying to figure out if he couldn’t breathe because he was staring at it again, or because the concept of the flowers blooming on it didn’t repulse him as much as he thought it should. Harry raised a hand tentatively, looking at Malfoy as he did so. Malfoy didn’t object. He nodded his head shortly. Harry grabbed his arm by the elbow.

 With a fortifying breath, he swiped his thumb across the ink. His heart stopped, he figured Malfoy's must have as well, but the world didn't turn over sideways and there wasn't any discomfort in his forehead, so Harry estimated it safe to repeat it again, and again, till he was properly caressing it. It didn't jut out of the skin as Harry had seen while Voldemort was alive. He was only met with smooth, silky skin.  
  
The pastel colours suited Malfoy's complexion, complementing it in more ways than one. He felt perplexed, torn between appreciating the beauty and delicacy of the flowers blooming on milky skin and hating every bit of it for what it's stem represented, for what the core of that bouquet cost him. There were many thoughts passing through his head, ranging between curiosity, anger, melancholy and sorrow.  
  
"Why?" He asked, his voice hoarse and spent. Throat tight. It was somewhat morbid, to stare at the Dark Mark and feel allured, enchanted... instead of the permanent death, destruction and tragedy that had been burned into his neurons whenever he laid eyes on it.  Malfoy didn't look at him, his hand was clenched into a fist.  
  
Harry had dealt with two types of sadness throughout his years. One was dry, hollow, left him feeling like an empty shell, drifting through the cosmos, incapable of moving on. The other was wet, heated, left him exhausted, but motivated him to keep going, to avenge, to get justice, to end the chaos. It was overwhelming, he felt too much, needed to much and wanted none of it.  
  
He didn't feel either at the moment.  
  
Malfoy didn't speak for a while. He looked crestfallen, and Harry wondered if he should simply leave and pretend none of it had ever happened. A lot of emotions seemed to flicker through his face, although Harry couldn't quite place them. Malfoy looked at him then, afterwards at his forearm, still gripped by Harry.  
  
" _Þar sem gróir þar er von. Allt sem græðir geymir von_ ," He said quietly. Harry frowned.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Where things grow, there is hope. All that heals has hope. Icelandic," He supplied quietly. "A few months ago, whenever I stared at it I wanted to light my forearm on fire, coat it with Firewhiskey and cast an _Incendio_ , because no other spell or charm worked to make The Mark go away. But then I thought, I'd be letting him win that way, wouldn't I?" Malfoy gave a breathy chuckle. "By scarring my skin, leaving nothing but destruction, I'd be pleasing him. It's what he would have wanted, to make me suffer, isn't it? He'd want to have that power beyond the grave. So I thought- I thought tattooing over it would be a good way of leaving the war behind, while still acknowledging it. Flowers grow and bloom, where things grow there's hope, the skin would heal from the tattoo, all that heals has hope. That, and doing it with a muggle artist, felt like the biggest ‘Fuck you’ to him, he'd cursed it so no magic could erase it, but once again- he underestimated Muggles." He took another deep breath. "It was the best way to mock it, to plant what starts as a seed of life on what was used to embody hatred and death. To let it grow and come to life on it."  
  
Harry was at loss of words, too stunned to speak. He figured he must look like a damn fool, gaping at Malfoy like he was seeing him for the first time. But the thing is, he was. Malfoy's words had set deep into his skin. It made him wonder just how much he didn't know about the man, how much they could agree on if they sat down and bothered to talk. He had started this conversation expecting dismay, and had ended it feeling pleasantly surprised, captivated and, as much as he resented to admit it, charmed.  
  
His chest ached and swelled in his chest to the point he feared it would burst out of it. It was too much, overwhelming all his senses.  
  
His lack of response must have discouraged Malfoy, because he tugged his arm free of Harry's hold.  
  
"Never mind, it probably sounds ridiculous-"  
  
"No! No..." Harry cut in, he licked his lips. "I- I think it's beautiful." He made sure to look him in the eye as he said it.  
  
"You believe so?" asked Malfoy with ill-concealed surprise, his cheeks had turned a rose shade again. Harry thought idly that it made him look good.

 Merlin and Godric both. He’d just told Malfoy he looked good. He’d _meant_ it.

 "Yes, absolutely... I'd just, never thought of it that way." he admitted. Godric, be could barely form a sentence. "But this, Malfoy, this is good... really good. I never thought I'd see you like this."

 Malfoy was embarrassed enough to look away, but a small smile turned up the corners of his lips. “I made a lot of mistakes, I hurt a lot of people. I made all the wrong choices I could have, so although I’d found out about this Muggle technique that would presumably make it go away, I didn’t think it should be that easy. I wanted it there, as a reminder. But I wanted it different.”  
  
They were quiet for a while, Harry didn’t know if he would be able to keep talking about this. "I do want to hear the story of Draco Malfoy faking being a Muggle for long enough to get this tattoo done, though."

 Malfoy's smile widened, turning into a smirk.  
  
"Well, Potter. It is quite the anecdote."  
  
\-     
  
That night, Harry went to bed with a feeling of warmth and serenity in his chest he hadn't felt for a very long time. He couldn't keep the bloody smile off of his face. It felt as a revelation, as allowing himself to see and embrace a reality that had been before his eyes for a very long time. That if Malfoy, who had seen so much darkness and lived with it in the same home, could find a way to move on, then so could he.

Eventually.  
  
He closed his eyes, and that night he didn't dream of shadowy figures with red slits for eyes, he didn't dream of long, blinding flashes of green. Instead, he dreamt of soft white blonde hair and flowers, lots of them.  
  
\-    
  
The next morning Harry awoke to a very insistent Hermione shaking his shoulder, accompanied by a reluctant-looking Ron. After dragging him down to the Common Room at eleven o'clock (Harry was thankful he wasn't woken up earlier), Hermione pointed excitedly at the room.  
  
He could see why, once he adjusted his glasses and cleared his vision. The room had been decorated with beautiful, dark wooden tables, these were further accessorized with creamy table tops, that held vases of varying shades of brown enhanced with golden details. Each vase sported a set of flowers in white, orange and yellow tones. Going from tulips to lilies.  
  
"When did this happen?" He asked with a furrowed brow.  
  
"Sometime at night," Ron supplied helpfully. "They were here when we came back from the Great Hall, Hermione hasn't stopped talking about it since."

 Hermione rolled her eyes- but the small smile on her lips belied the sentiment. Ron kissed her cheek. Harry's frown only deepened.  
  
"You look puzzled." she said.

"I sort of am, I mean- there isn't really a pattern, is there? They don't appear at particular dates." Hermione shook her head.  
  
"You're right, they do not. The time intervals between each appearance is inconsistent." Harry hummed, could it be a coincidence? That flowers had materialized into their shared common room during the time he'd spent upstairs with Malfoy healing him and talking about his flower tattoo?  
  
"Harry?"  
  
"Right, sorry." He shook his head.  
  
"Where were you last night? You didn't come with Luna to the Great Hall," Hermione asked.  
  
"Decided to go to bed earlier." Harry shrugged, making for the stairs again. He ought to change out of his pajamas. "I'll go change and we can hit the library."  
  
"We were thinking of going for a pint after we're done. Fancy joining us?" Ron asked.  
  
"Sounds good." Harry said, and shut the door behind him.  
  
\-    
  
"You alright, mate?" asked Ron for the up-tenth time as they took a seat on their table. Two twelve inch essays and a day full of Potions and Transfiguration revision later, they found themselves at the Three Broomsticks once again.  
  
"Peachy," sighed Harry, taking a sip of his Butterbeer. He'd never get tired tired of this taste. He remembered one particular week during their hiding where all he could think of was how nice a good bottle of Butterbeer would have been at the moment.  
  
"I brought some books from the library for a bit of a light reading before bed," said Hermione.

"We're shocked."

Hermione glared at Ron, who sniggered and pressed a kiss to her lips. Harry faked a gagging nose.  
  
"Oh stop it." said Hermione, clearly not amused, although her cheeks were slightly flushed.  
  
She cleared her throat. "Anyways, I thought I could afford doing some research on our Common Room. Moreover, what may have caused it." A flash of fiery red hair brushed against Harry’s cheek as Ginny took her seat next to him.  
  
"Is that what Neville keeps fussing about? He said he refuses to sit in it alone, he's scared the ground will open and swallow him whole," she said, unapologetically taking a sip of Harry's drink.  
  
"At this point, I wouldn't deny the possibility," Hermione replied gloomily. "Although it seems keen on helping us" Harry wanted to weigh in and share his theory, but he couldn't risk telling them about Malfoy's tattoo. It was something Malfoy had trusted him with in secret, after all. Harry didn't intend on breaking the unspoken trust between them. Luna and Neville chose that moment to sit down as well. Luna next to Hermione and Ron, Neville next to Ginny and Harry.  
  
"Perhaps you've got duendes crafting your wishes, like that Muggle tale father used to read to me," Luna said dreamily as she passed Ginny the drink she'd brought her. The corners of Hermione's lips twitched, as though she'd object, but decided against it.    
  
"All theories are welcome." Hermione turned towards Neville. "Did you find anything unusual about the flowers?" Neville shook his head.  
  
"Nothing. Just regular Tulips, Lilies and Margaritas. I even attempted a few spells to see if any had been cursed or charmed, but they weren't."

Hermione pursed her lips.  
  
"They couldn't have been Conjured, could they? They would have disappeared by now," asked Ron. Hermione shook her head.  
  
"They weren't conjured, no."  
  
"Started without us, lads?" Seamus dragged a chair and plopped down on it. Dean joined him, taking place in the empty space beside Neville.  
  
"We were just discussing your Common Room," supplied Luna. Seamus grinned.  
  
"It's pretty wicked, innit?" Dean nodded with a small grin of his own.  
  
"It's as if whatever magic the Room of Requirement had transferred directly to our Common Room."  
  
"That's impossible," argued Hermione.  
  
"I reckon she's right." Harry found himself saying. "We've asked for plenty of things that haven't shown up."  
  
"Not to mention, why would the magic in the Room of Requirement move to a place so particularly far from it?" Hermione added. The group nodded thoughtfully.  
  
"Could we change the subject?" moaned Ginny. She'd begun drumming her fingers against the table, which Harry had learned was a habit she picked up whenever she was getting impatient.  
  
"I second that." Hermione threw Harry an unimpressed look.  
  
"You needn't kiss Ginny's arse anymore, Harry," Seamus said, grinning at the pair. Everyone at the table laughed.  
  
"Mum still expects the two of you to get it together, you know," Ron said after the laughing had quieted down. Ginny rolled her eyes at him.  
  
"Mum needs to mind her own business," she said bitterly."She even owls me about the damn thing."

 Harry's eyebrows disappeared beneath his fringe. "Merlin, does she really? She must be too hopeful."  
  
"Quite," said Ginny drily.  
  
"You could start dating Dean again, that should dim her expectations." Ginny threw him an incredulous look.  
  
"Dean's sort of off the market, isn't he?" she said, Harry frowned.  
  
"What?" He turned to Dean. "Who are you seeing?"  
  
Everyone, even Luna, which was quite alarming in itself, looked at him like he was mad, or joking.  
  
"What!" He repeated, even Ron looked concerned. "I'm missing something, aren't I?"  
  
"Merlin, please let me tell him." Ginny said excitedly. Dean had turned a slight shade of scarlet. He was avoiding looking at Harry.  
  
"I thought everyone knew, we haven't been particularly subtle." Ron snorted at that.  
  
"Er, who is she, then? Is she younger than us?" Hermione was looking at him pitifully.  
  
"No, I mean,- in our year."  
  
"An eighth year? Who is it? What house is she from?" Dean looked at Seamus desperately, who'd chosen that very same moment to halt his constant blabbering.  
  
"Godric, this is hilarious." said Ginny.  
  
"Fuck sake, Harry-"  
  
"No, no," Ron interrupted. “Let's see how long it takes him.”

Harry continued to blink at them.  
  
"It's _me_ , you dimwit," a voice at the table snapped.  
  
"What?" He asked dumbly, because surely Seamus _didn't_ _mean_ -  
  
"I'm the one Dean is dating," he finished. Again, Harry was pants at the art of being subtle, so his mouth hung open until Ginny snapped it shut with her finger.  
  
"Surely you don't have a problem with that, Harry?" Hermione asked, the beginnings of a scowl forming on her face.  
  
"What? No! Merlin. Absolutely not, I just can't believe I didn't notice."  
  
Ginny snorted. “No wonder there, you aren't the most perceptive person," she said.

"Excuse me," he protested. "I resent-"  
  
"She's right, mate," said Neville with a soft smile. Harry sputtered indignantly.  
  
"You didn't notice I have vitiligo until fourth year during the Yule Ball." said Hermione, counting on her fingers. "You didn't notice when I shrunk my teeth." Ron chuckled.  
  
"You didn't notice Ginny's embarrassing crush on you for years."  
  
"You never noticed any of my haircuts," Ginny added, flicking her silky hair back into freckled shoulders. "Not unless I pointed them out myself."  
  
"You completely missed when Seamus got tattooed," Neville said.  
  
"Oh, bugger off, will you?" said Harry while the group collectively sniggered. "Dean, Seamus, that's brilliant, congratulations." Both nodded at him with matching amused smiles. He couldn't help but feel an expanding warm feeling at how his friends seemed so supportive of this. How they welcomed it with ease.  
  
He supposed he could blame the Dursleys- and Tom Riddle, on him being unobservant and lacking insightfulness when it came to trivial, non-life-threatening matters. As a kid, his questions had always been shot down. He'd received scowls and huffs instead of answers to his childish curiosities. He'd been a child, a toddler, of course he'd had questions; he'd seen mothers carrying their children and humoring them, telling them why the sky was blue and how the TV worked. Harry had never had that, so eventually, he'd stopped noticing- and stopped asking. Then, Harry had found out about a new world, the one he had belonged in all along, but he hadn't had the chance to properly be introduced to all its creases and fine lines, to all its intricate details.  
  
He'd never really had a chance to explore, to dip his fingers into the soil and feel it touch his skin, to breath in the scent and plant his home somewhere. He'd never had the chance to stand beneath the falling snow and let the snowflakes fall and melt on his tongue, to watch it be splendid and cooling, to lay on it as it melted peacefully.  
  
Harry had never gotten to enjoy the cocktail-blue skies or the never-ending clouds that mapped it, the beaked choruses that the wild life provided on a summer day. He'd never gotten to experience the beaming sun kiss his skin with calm. Or the crunching of the leaves beneath his feet during autumn, the coziness of the Common Room fire with a cuppa.  
  
Harry knew, of course he knew, that Hogwarts was the closest thing to a home he'd ever had.  
  
Sometimes he wondered, if Voldemort had died and taken all chances of Harry's happiness with him. If he'd confined him to a transparent prison he would never get out of. All while he watched, a silhouette of red eyes and macabre smiles. He wanted out, he needed out.  
  
Sometimes he wanted to pull a dérive, leave everything around him and never come back. Plant his roots in a small home that was his, where there were no memories of his friends and family being slaughtered, where people didn't expect him to be Potter. He wanted to feel numinous, the pleasure of being able to say "to hell with it". He wanted to become an unpredictable instance, a journey, a whimsical desire. He wondered what flourishing felt like. He wanted to know what his inconsolable longing would become, should he ever find an answer.     
  
There were many things he hadn't seen, touched, tasted, experienced yet. But Harry craved it, desired it with every fiber of his soul, his very being latched onto the thought of freedom, of being a careless spirit. He wanted enough time to be in love with everything.  
  
He wanted time to love, to hate, to watch his friends become who they were always meant to be, to marvel, to soul-search, self-question. A journey of self discovery, perhaps even self recovery, and introspection. He wanted time, feared it would be taken away from him just as most gifts had been.  
  
He wondered if it made him selfish and self righteous, wanting more when he already had so much. He was sitting with some of his best friends, sharing a pint, yet he couldn't help feeling suffocated. He couldn't help craving more, till the fire of it extinguished, or consumed him, whichever happened first.  
  
He felt the fire prickling too close to his face, reaching him, crushing him, melting away the outer layer, demanding to crush what was within.  
  
He opened his eyes to a blurry Ginny shaking his shoulder, her eyes were filled with worry as she mouthed soundlessly at him. A hand was stroking his hair. There was a sudden movement and Ginny's warm eyes left his. The hand brushing his fringe tensed, then resumed it's caresses. Ginny's hand on his shoulder was clutching him tight.  
_  
_ _No, don't leave_ , Harry thought. His lungs had begun to squeeze tighter, threatening to collapse on him, his vision kept going out of focus. He felt the room spin slightly, the pressure on his chest increased.  
  
But then her grip loosened, her soft gaze stared at him again, telling him something along the lines of "okay" and "don't worry".  A new, slightly colder and thinner hand laid on his chest, he could only make out short, straight black hair hiding the face of whoever it was. A second later, a white light began emanating from the mystery woman's hands. Harry panicked, wondering if the stark Killing Curse was white before it turned green. But he didn't fall in a black abyss, instead- the pressure eased, his eyes cleared and he could breathe again. He took greedy gulps of air, coughing and attempted to sit up.

  
  
-

 

"Hey, hey, simmer down," soothed Hermione. She looked startled, shocked and perhaps... a bit afraid as well. Harry felt embarrassed. It had happened again in front of everyone. Thankfully, The Three Broomsticks wasn't busy today and most wizards and witches were either uninterested, or pretending they were.  
  
"What was that? The light," he croaked, his throat was dry and felt close to sand paper. Harry prayed that he hadn't imagined it; he had been humiliated enough.  
  
There was a demeaning silence. Hermione, Ron and Ginny were tense as they shared a look. Then Ron moved his tall, lanky figure to the side, Harry's breath caught. His insides seemed to have turned to ice.  
  
Pansy Parkinson stood next to Blaise Zabini, staring angrily at the floor, he saw her hair and recognized it as the bob-haired person who had healed him moments before. Pansy Parkinson, the woman who had tried handing him over to Voldemort to save her own skin. Pansy Parkinson, who stood there in jet black. The tension in her posture belied the soft scowl of her face.  
  
"We didn't know if we could trust her, but you weren't responding- you'd never lasted that long, and she said she had experience, and we didn't know what to do-" Hermione gushed, looking frantically between the two of them.  
  
"What did you do?" He asked Parkinson. She looked resentful, as if she wished she was anywhere else.  
  
"Tranquillam magic, wandless." She shrugged a thin shoulder. A few eyebrows shot up. "It relaxes the patient, loosens the muscle's tension, promotes oxygen transport to the brain." Everyone else at the table seemed speechless.  
  
She raised a thin brow. "What? I've got plans to become a Healer. I've got to be able to do something impressive if I want to get in with this tarnished reputation, do I not?"

Harry swore he could have heard a pin drop in that very moment. He found himself, to his very horror, feeling sympathetic.  
  
"Where did you learn this?" He finally asked, because he didn't know what else to say and because he didn't know how to say thank you to Pansy Parkinson.  
  
"During the war, I knew someone who suffered from episodes like yours," she said stiffly. Harry saw that Zabini wrapped a strong hand around her arm. "I wanted to help him. It was all I could do." Her voice broke at that and she wrapped her hands around her abdomen. Harry wasn't sure she'd noticed she had done it. The Pansy Parkinson he knew would not show vulnerability.    
  
Then again, he didn't know her at all.  
  
"Thank you," he said softly.  
  
"It was nothing.”

“It was-“

Parkinson cut him off. “It wasn’t, Merlin knows you've saved us all already. A good dozen times." He shut up at that, because he couldn't really argue on it without sitting here for a while. that was the last thing he wanted at the moment.  
  
"Well then, we'll be off." She tugged at Zabini's perfectly tailored clothing and head for the door with a nod of her head. Harry, although still slightly shaken, noticed Ginny staring at her retreating form with a frown.  
  
\-    
  
That night they arrived at the Common Room and froze in their stance. For there was a fireplace adorning the biggest wall, big and beautiful, already lit. The Slytherin gang sat before it, accompanied by the Ravenclaws. They were warming their hands with the fire. Harry half expected Hermione to drag them to the library with the Cloak that very second. But instead, her eyebrows disappeared beneath her fringe and she mumbled something unintelligible, staring at Pansy Parkinson.  
  
"How long has it been here?" Hermione asked, her grip on Harry still strong.  
  
"Since 19:34, to be precise," she checked the watch on her wrist and muttered something else Harry didn't quite catch.  
  
"What is it?" Ron asked curiously -also holding Harry upright- despite his protests. He had it sorted; his life wasn't in shambles because of one small attack.  
  
"Nothing." Hermione manhandled him into one of the wide couches, taking her seat next to him, then touched his forehead. "You're not coming down with a fever, that's good."  
  
"I'm fine, guys." Harry saw Seamus and Dean pass by, holding hands. He had forgotten his earlier embarrassment at having been so clueless. He stared at Dean... and what he'd told Ginny, how she should take him back, but Dean-  
  
"How is Dean dating Seamus if he fancied Ginny?" He blurted out to Hermione and Ron before he could think about it too much. Ron and Hermione shared a look, something he'd grown quite irritated by.  
  
"What... do you mean?" she asked carefully.  
  
"Did he fake fancying girls?" Hermione looked perplexed by his question.    
  
"What? No. Harry, he likes both."  
  
There is a moment that comes very rarely in life, a moment of self-discovery, an unclenching of a heartstring, a sudden clarity. It's a moment where something clicks in your chest.  
  
"That's-that's a thing?" He hadn't meant for it to come out as shakily as it had, even Ron was gaping at him, that ought to tell him something.  
  
"Blimey, Harry. Yeah, it's bisexuality."

Harry blinked several times. There was a word for it. A bloody word.  
  
"Bisexuality?" he breathed.  
  
"Yes, Harry. Oh God, you really didn't know it was possible?"

Harry shook his head.  
  
"I thought you could only like one." he mumbled, his throat felt thick. Bisexuality. It must have shown on his face, his panic and confusion, because Hermione's face softened.  
  
"Is there..." she seemed to hesitate, then looked at Ron, who was watching them both intently, then pulled out his wand and casting a _Muffliato_ so they wouldn't be heard "Is there something you'd like to tell us, Harry?"  
  
Was there? He asked himself. It wasn't as if he'd never noticed blokes, he couldn't pretend he hadn't. He'd noticed them, noticed Bill Weasley, Oliver Wood, Charlie Weasley, even-even Cedric Diggory. But he'd always found he enjoyed and liked girls, so he'd thought it was something all other blokes did, shoot others a glance as they dried their bodies after Quidditch practice, admire their features, their good looks. He never thought he could, never even dreamed he was allowed, to like both. He'd known some men were fit, he'd always known it. But he'd never let himself think of what it meant.  
  
"Oh Harry," said Hermione, sniffing softly as she cradled him against her. "You should have told us. Did you ever think we wouldn't support you?"  
  
Ron snorted. "You think after everything, something like that would be my limit? Rubbish." And Harry wasn't sure, he didn't know, couldn't know yet, but he knew that when he did, they'd love him. They'd support him fully.  
  
"I-I'm honestly not sure," he croaked.

Ron patted his back reassuringly. "That's alright mate," he grinned at Harry. "As long as you don't start dating Charlie."  
  
"What!? Charlie likes blokes?" He all but shouted.  
  
Ron and Hermione's laughter could only be heard within their bubble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! <3 read this chapter’s questions above.
> 
> All credit for the tattoo idea goes to UpTheHill ! Check out their incredible work.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I’m so excited to be uploading this chapter. Chapter four had such a nice response! I loved your comments and your reviews in general. It really inspired me. I think you guys will enjoy this one, it’s just 6k words of pure Harry/Draco interactions. I’ve been sorting out an outline and I think this story has around 5-6 chapters left, if anyone was wondering! 
> 
> I dedicate this chapter to Kunfyouzed! Your comment was so lovely! Thank you for your insight and compliments.  
> (Per usual, if you want the next chapter to be dedicated to you, all you have to do is leave a review) 
> 
> This chapter’s question:  
> What’s your biggest pet peeve in drarry fanfics?
> 
> Last but not least, a massive massive thank you to my lovely Betas, madeoficeandfire and Aspera, also madeoficeandfire / eyelashesonentropy on tumblr, for this story would not be the same without their work and guidance.
> 
> Please enjoy and review!

The third time it happened, Draco was already awake, rereading Greg's letter. They'd been sending each other letters on a weekly basis. Draco loved Pansy, he appreciated Blaise's friendship, but he had years and years with Greg and Vincent he could never erase. Granted, he knew now that perhaps he hadn't been a decent friend to them, but they were people he treasured nonetheless. Talking to Greg felt soothing, because he had been there as well; Greg had lost Vincent just like Draco had, he’d felt the desperation and helplessness as the fire engulfed everything around them too. He wished constantly that Greg would come back, there was an unsettling feeling in sitting down at the Great Hall and not hearing him ask for the potatoes, or laugh at something Vincent had said. Their friendship had been the one thing Draco was always sure of, the one thing he'd never doubted.  
  
He knew Greg needed time to move on, he knew everyone dealt with mourning and loss differently.  
  
_'I’m still having a bit of a hard time adjusting. I thought going away would make me feel better, you know? But I was wrong. I miss you guys. Classes here are twice as boring. How's rooming with Potter going? Is he giving you trouble?_ _  
__  
__My dreams about it have simmered down. Now they happen once or twice a week only._ _  
__  
__I haven't had the chance to meet many people yet, although that's been a bit helpful, it's made me focus on my classes. I've been meaning to ask you these past weeks but always forget, how are Theo, Pansy and Blaise? Send them my regards._ _  
__  
__Greg.'_  
  
He remembered Greg's words when he'd told him he wouldn't be coming back this year "too many memories there, I'll see Vincent wherever I go."  
  
Draco had stopped trying to persuade him after that. He hadn’t had the heart to protest. All in all, he understood the feeling now. He knew exactly what it meant to wander the icy, dark halls haunted by the memories of those who had once stood in them, but would never have the chance to again.  
  
He heard a shuffling of sheets at first that brought him out of his thoughts, it was nothing out of the ordinary, but then the sound intensified. He could hear laboured breathing now.  
  
He waited a few minutes, to see if Potter would settle down again the way he did most nights. But it didn't come, instead, Potter started making anguished, pained sounds. Draco winced in sympathy and tucked Greg’s letter beneath his pillow, he opened his curtains.  
  
He padded his way softly to Potter's bed, cautious of the creaky beneath his feet. With a shuddering breath, he opened the curtains. Potter was in the same position he'd been the other two times Draco had seen him; strong, firm legs with bony knees tangled with the white sheets. Hair matted down on his forehead, eyebrows scrunched up, mouth open. He felt both curious and afraid of what he could be dreaming of. He wanted to comfort Potter, he realized. He longed to climb in next to him and pull him close, whispering sweet nothings in his ear that would lull him back to sleep.

It was absurd, really. He should have seen it coming whenever Pansy had joked about it when they were fifteen, sitting next to the large windows that showed the lake as Draco decided whether he liked “ _Potter Stinks_ ” or “ _I Hate Potter_ ” more. He should have suspected it when other Slytherins in the Dungeons would complain about him never shutting up about Potter. He should have known, when Blaise had teased him about it, because that man had always been sharp and knowing. Draco knew the line between passion and hatred was thin and fragile. He knew he'd been toying with it for years. He'd managed to stop thinking about it the last two, when he'd had a madman living in his house, his acidic laugh echoing the halls of what he’d considered home. When he'd had a task he knew would be his doom, whether he carried on with it or not. But perhaps he’d always known there were only so many times you could stay up until dawn thinking about new ways to get someone’s attention before it got out of hand. 

Draco knelt beside the bed and pushed Potter’s hair out of his eyes with delicate fingers. His fingers lingered on the sun kissed skin, tracing it daintily. His thumb traced the small scar he had beneath his eye. He pondered how many scars marred Potter’s skin and if he would ever get the chance to ask him how he got all of them.  
  
Draco would listen, he'd sit and listen and map his body deftly as he heard him tell the heartfelt stories that would soon be in history books. He'd commit every edge, every bump, every alteration to his memory. He’d cherish every detail.  But he feared vulnerability as much as he craved intimacy, so he would never tell Potter about any of it.  
  
Harry murmured something in his sleep, followed by a distressed sound.  
  
"Shhh. It's alright," he found himself saying, tangling one hand in the unruly, surprisingly soft black curls. With a shaky breath, he started stroking it. He knew deep down he was being a fool, there was nothing more imbecilic than intimately touching Harry Potter while he slept. Potter hated him, probably only ever spoke to him out of pity. If he were to wake up and see Draco like this, if he knew what Draco was thinking of, he’d probably count it as justifiable grounds for manslaughter.  
  
He wanted to leave, climb back into his bed and pretend none of this ever happened, but Potter sighed and the knot between his eyebrows loosened. He leaned into the contact, sinking Draco's fingers deeper into his hair, his nose and mouth pressed to the side of Draco's wrist. Draco's stomach clenched as his mind wondered, albeit against his will, what it would be like if Harry ever did it deliberately.  
  
Draco had already harmed him enough, he'd spit venom at him and made his life hell when Potter hadn't deserved it, even if he had been a git back. This man had had the weight of the world on his shoulders and some, and Draco had complicated his life out of pure envy. Out of pure greed. Maybe out of longing, too. This was the least he could do.  
  
But then now, now that death wasn't licking his heels and he was sharing a dorm room with Potter. Potter, whose scent lingered in their room after he'd left. Potter, who had sat on his bed and healed him. Potter, who had seen his tattoo and understood what it meant, what it stood for. Potter, who had gotten angry when he'd found out Draco had been hurt; who stuck his tongue out whenever he was focusing on something, who still stared at him when he thought Draco wasn't looking. Potter, with his stupid crooked tie and collar that Draco always itched to fix. With his soft smiles and bright green eyes.  
  
Maybe this was the reason Draco's soul had been pardoned, maybe this is why the stars had changed their course, altered their position. Death was ever so forgiving, it was life who was cunning and cruel. Deceitful and sadistic. Perhaps he only lived to experience the humiliation of it, of falling for Harry Potter, who probably hated and pitied him. Of clinging to ridiculous hope and longing that would never be reciprocated.  
  
Draco, lost in thought, didn't notice green eyes opening, staring at him in shock that dawned into apprehension until it was too late. He locked eyes with Potter and froze.  
  
He flinched and his first instinct was to bolt, but Potter seemed to employ his reflexes, courtesy of his Seeker abilities—which Draco had new reasons to resent— and caught his wrist before he could.  
  
Draco knew it was futile to attempt to leave. So he closed his eyes in shame, and waited for the inevitable hex. He had nothing to defend himself.  
  
It never came.  
  
Instead, Potter continued to stare at him.  
  
"What were you doing?" he asked softly. Draco sniffed.  
  
"I- I was," he stuttered, thinking of something to say. "I was trying to wake you up, you were snoring." Something gleamed in Potter's eyes, but he didn't look angry.  
  
"You were stroking my hair."  
  
"That's _preposterous_ , I wasn't-"  
  
"You were," he insisted, Draco looked away, staring at the ground with resentment.  
  
"Why were you doing that?" Draco had never heard Potter sound like that. Calm and wary at the same time.  
  
"I don't recall agreeing for an interview, Potter," he snarled, then attempted to twist his arm free. Potter clung on.  
  
"Not until you answer me, Malfoy."    
  
"I don't owe you an answer."  
  
"You're practically in my bed, touching me in my sleep." Draco sputtered indignantly.  
  
"You make it sound like I was molesting you." Potter's lips twisted in amusement and he raised a brow. Draco's eyes widened. "I was not _molesting_ -"  
  
Potter laughed, soft and warm, his shoulders shook with it. "I know, I know. I'm just messing with you." Draco could feel his cheeks heating up and he tucked his chin in.  
  
"Alright, then." Potter tugged at his arm, catching his attention. "Are you going to tell me, or should I go to sleep so you can continue touching me in peace?"  
  
Draco glared at him with the last shred of his dignity.  
  
"I have them too, the nightmares," he admitted, gesturing vaguely with his hand. "I would have been embarrassed if someone I hate had woken me up because they heard me. So I did the next most logical thing."  
  
Potter was quiet for a while. “I don't hate you, Malfoy."  
  
"How magnanimous of you, Potter," Draco said dryly. "Whatever would we do without your mercy, _Oh Chosen One_ ."  
  
Potter swatted him on the arm with his free hand, eyes crinkling with amusement. "No, you git. You're just not as much of a wanker as I thought you were."  
  
"That's debatable."  
  
"I know, you’re making me second guess right now." Potter reached out to the nightstand to the side his bed and slipped on his glasses. Oddly enough, it only embarrassed Draco further, making him feel even more exposed than before. He hoped the look on his face didn’t belie his words.  
  
"Not that I didn't enjoy this round of banter, but do you plan on releasing my arm? Or should I be concerned?" Potter shook his head firmly. Draco grit his teeth, wondering when he'd given Potter the liberties of teasing him.  
  
He licked his lips. "You're just being deliberately obtuse, aren't you?"  
  
The git had the nerve to grin.  
  
Potter’s hand shifted, tan fingers wrapping around a pale wrist more comfortably. It drew Draco's attention to his hand. Potter’s skin had always been beautifully brown; it’d shine like gold when under the sun, his fingers were lean and slightly bony at the knuckles. He looked at it and noticed silver scarring he hadn’t seen before. Draco frowned, it looked like letters—like _Potter's handwriting_ — Draco was barely able to make out the sentence.  
  
'I must not tell lies.' He felt numb as the words bounced inside his skull.

"Potter, what-" He attempted to swallow the shakiness in his voice. "What is this?"  
  
Potter tensed and his face fell. He seemed to struggle with himself for a minute, but he didn't release Draco.  
  
"Umbridge's punishments in fifth year," he later explained. Draco's blood felt as if it had spontaneously turned to ice.  
  
"That's illegal, that's-"  
  
"Lots of the things that went down in this castle are illegal, don't you think?" Potter said grimly, his mouth in a tight line.  
  
"I didn't know," he offered, head swimming. He felt a rush of hot shame at the memory of what he’d done that year. Umbridge had tortured students and he’d been her pawn. All for recognition and praise.

All for _nothing_.  

"It wouldn't have made a difference if you did." Draco looked at him, at the lightning scar that adorned his face, cutting through his eyebrow and down the side of his eye. That mark was the first thing people noticed when they looked at Harry Potter. He focused on his eyes next, intense green muted by the moonlight. That was the second. His eyes swept up to his hair, the wild locks that seemed to have a mind of their own, that was the third. No one bothered to look at the frown lines between Potter's eyebrows. At the scar on his hand. The hollowness on his cheeks no matter how much he seemed to eat. For once, the magnitude of what Potter had gone through crashed on him. For once, he no longer felt envious.  
  
What a bunch of messed up teenagers they were.  
  
He looked at Potter again, grey bore into green. "I'm sorry," he said, hoping his guilt showed in his face.  
  
Potter stiffened, not having expected it, but then he nodded his head at him, offering a small, polite smile.  
  
"I'm sorry as well."  
  
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Draco protested.  
  
"I do," Potter said, voice unnervingly calm. "I almost killed you." He looked torn and regretful. "I didn't know what the spell did."

Draco believed him. He couldn't get himself to speak for a while, the memories of the smell of his own blood and the rushing of the water invaded his mind. He toyed with the hem of his clothes, a habit he’d picked up in order to distract himself. He thought of sixth year, of the nights where it felt like his legs were carrying him through the passages of the castle on their own, of the dread that sat beneath his words and actions. The fear and relief he’d simultaneously felt as he’d realized Potter would kill him. He regretted so much, he would always live with the question of what would have happened had he asked for help, had he vanished his pride in that cabinet.

"At first I thought I was angry at you for almost killing me," he confessed, refusing to meet Potter’s eyes. "Then I realized I was only angry you hadn't succeeded.”  
  
"Malfoy-"

"I was certain I would die that year. There was no way I would beat Dumbledore, if he didn't kill me, Voldemort would." He was staring at something at the far right corner of Potter’s head, as if he’d found something incredibly engrossing in there.  
  
"I should have tried to help you, I should have given you the benefit of the doubt." Draco hated it, hated that Potter still tried to find the good in every person he met. Hated that he would never deserve him. Not as a friend, much less as anything else.  
  
"You had no reason to trust me." Potter's mouth twisted, but he remained silent. Draco did not know why he was bothering with all of this, why he was opening himself and telling Potter everything. He thought idly that perhaps part of him knew nothing good would come out of this, but the other, much stronger and louder part, wanted Potter to look at him and not feel disgust in the lower part of his stomach. He wanted to prove himself to him.  
  
"I suppose it had been easy, back then, to blame you for everything that went wrong. For every time my father wasn't there when I needed him, for every time I didn't achieve what I wanted," he gave a distressed laugh "For every time you got away with something none of us would have gotten away with." Potter gave a weak smile.  
  
"I wish things had gone different. I wish you lot had asked for help," he said. "You were in an impossible position, fighting your family or joining the evil side, I wish things had been different."  
  
Draco's lip curled. "It wouldn’t have been that easy, just walk in and ask for help-“  
  
“Because no one believes a Slytherin who cries wolf," Potter interrupted him, echoing his own words from a while ago. Draco searched his face for any hint of mocking, but Potter looked sincere and understanding. He despised the flutter of his heart at it, how he managed to give himself hope even when he knew it was futile.

"Parkinson helped me, did you know that?" Potter told him, Draco almost gave himself whiplash. 

"What?"

"At the Leaky, I was having, er... some trouble breathing, and she performed _Tranquillam Magic_ on me." Draco gaped at him shock, then recalled how Pansy had spent hours in the library looking for a form of magic that would help with Draco's panic attacks during sixth year. He remembered her soothing words as her hands lingered on his chest, Greg holding his shoulder reassuringly, even if his hold was far too strong for comfort, Vincent bringing him a cup of water afterwards. He felt a tug of pride in his chest for her and a smile tugged on his lips despite himself.  
  
"She didn't say," he said, voice hoarse and thick and overwhelmed. “Slytherin House is full of surprises these days.”  
  
"I thought it was sort of brilliant, how your friends stood up for you in Hagrid's class. I always just assumed none of you actually cared about each other," Potter chuckled.  
  
Draco snorted, perhaps a bit more resentfully than he'd originally intended to."There is always honour and loyalty, Potter, even among the serpents," he said.  
  
“Of course, I’m starting to believe the lot of you were a bunch of arrogant arses just for the edgy reputation, then you’d go to your Common Room and braid each other’s hair,” Draco smirked.  
  
“I’ll have to kill you if I tell you.” Potter laughed. Draco realized he did that around him a lot, and he would always deny the pride that blossomed within him because of it. “Also, quite rich coming from _you_ , calling us arrogant.”  
  
Potter threw him an unimpressed look, but otherwise ignored his comment. “It’s a tad depressing, the Slytherin Common Room, no wonder you were all in such an angsty mood all the damn time.”  
  
Draco scowled, indignant. “Excuse me? The Slytherin Common Room is the most elegant and classy of all, thank you very much, you can wax poetic about your chivalry and bravery all you want, but Gryffindors have no sense of fashion and decorations, if those bloody colours are any indication, they’re an _assault_ to my _eyes_ —“ Draco stopped abruptly, and regarded Potter with a dark, suspicious look.  
  
“Hold on,” he said. “How, pray tell, do you know what the Slytherin Common Room looks like?” Potter’s eyes widened, as if he hadn’t meant to reveal that much.  
  
“Er, nothing, I just... assumed?” he offered lamely.  
  
“Liar,” Draco hissed. “You are a rotten liar, Harry Potter, you’re far too honourable for it; spill it.”  
  
Potter looked resentful at the remark, but he didn’t argue against it. “I may have, possibly— _potentially_ —sneaked into it in second year.”  
  
Draco’s mouth fell open, then he sputtered. “You— You sneaked into the Dungeons in _second year_ ?” he asked, far too high pitched and scandalized for arse-in-the-morning. He pinched the bridge of his nose, breathed in and out. “You mean to tell me, that you went and achieved what no one had been able to in centuries, at the age of what, _twelve_ ?”  
  
Potter have gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry?”  
  
“I can’t _believe—_ “  Draco flailed his arms, jerking Potter’s own arm with it “I cannot, I refuse to believe this. You are just as insufferable as I feared, perhaps maybe even worse. Merlin’s tits, you must have defeated the madman by purely irritating him. How did you manage that? No one _knows_ how to get in.”  
  
-

 _Well, in for a knut, in for a Galleon_ , Harry thought.

“Ron and I may have PolyjuicedourselvesasCrabbeandGoyle.” he wheezed, squeezing his eyes shut. When there was no response, he opened one eye wearily. Malfoy was gaping like fish out of water. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, soundlessly. Harry was starting to worry that he’d ruined one of the most brilliant minds of Hogwarts, and was wondering if Hermione and Ron would have to scrape off the bits of him from the wall tomorrow morning, when Malfoy spoke, 

“You...” he paused to swallow. “You and Weasley Polyjuiced yourselves into Vincent and Greg, and snuck into our Common Room,” He repeated, very slowly, as if he was waiting for the punchline. Or waiting to punch Harry, he couldn’t really tell the difference at this point.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“ _Why_ ?” inquired Malfoy.  
  
“We, uh, we wanted to see if you knew anything about the heir of Slytherin.” Malfoy’s entire body reacted to this with a harsh, shocked jerk.  
  
“You did _not_ ,” he breathed, horrified.  
  
“I’m afraid we did.” Malfoy looked around himself, then his eyes settled on the bed, he stood up from his crouching position next to it, and plopped down on it—making Harry release his arm—as if he couldn’t carry his weight on his legs anymore.

“How— How the fuck did you get your hands on polyjuice potion?” he asked finally.

“Mione brewer it in the girls’ bathroom.”  
  
“ _Circe_ , Potter.” Harry noticed Malfoy was starting to look a bit feverish and worried the news were going to end up in the man’s demise— which he sort of understood—, but didn’t fancy on his plate anyways. “Trust Granger to go and brew one of the most complicated Potions successfully in _second year_ .”  
  
“Listen, Malfoy-“ Malfoy lifted a hand dismissively.  
  
“No, spare me your excuses, how many times did you do this?”  
  
“Just once.”

Malfoy scowled. “That’s one time too many, Potter!” he snarled. 

“Well, we had to!” Harry said defensively.  
  
“ _Hardly_! I knew just as much as you did!”

Harry pursed his lips. “Alright, fine, perhaps it wasn’t our best decision.” 

“ _Perhaps_ ? That’s the understatement of the bloody century. You are a menace, the three of you.” He shook his head, sounding appalled “I knew I despised your existence for a reason.”  
  
“But not anymore?” Harry asked, and he knew he was fishing.  
  
“Hardly the point, Potter. Now is not the time to go Hufflepuff on me. Our truce is put on hold until further notice.” Harry snorted.  
  
“Whatever you say, Malfoy.”  
  
“Is there anything else you’d like to inform me of? Are you going to tell me you’re also secretly one of the Manor’s house elves and were monitoring my moves during the summer? Hit me with all the truths, Potter. I must know, for my own welfare, I deserve it.”  
  
Harry grinned. “You’re such a drama queen.” Malfoy glared at him.  
  
“Fuck you, Potter. My trauma and skepticism are very much justifiable. _I cannot believe_ — how you always got away with this shite is beyond me.”  
  
“The castle loves me?” Harry offered.  
  
Malfoy was flat-out not amused, Harry was starting to question if it was possible to glower at someone with your body as well, Malfoy seemed to have achieved it, “ _Dumbledore_ loved you, you mean. That man was a fundamental part of our education, someone we should have all looked up to, yet he would have probably tossed us all out in favor of you, Granger and Weasley.” Harry felt a sharp twist in his stomach at the mention of the man, he hadn’t known what to think of him since he’d spoken to Hermione about him.  
  
Malfoy must have sensed his discomfort, because he straightened up and started to apologize.  
  
“No—no, it’s fine. I just, don’t know how I feel about him anymore.” He said, voice tight and bitter. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, because it made talking easier— and he hoped he’d find an answer there as to why he was sharing this with Malfoy, of all people.  

He was only greeted with dust and spiderwebs, much to his disappointment.  

“I never expected to hear you say that,” Malfoy admitted, brows knitted in confusion.  
  
“Right, well.” Harry swallowed around the right lump in his throat. “Some of the things that happened during the Battle gave me food for thought, I guess.” Malfoy didn’t answer him and it took a moment for Harry to realize he was waiting for him to continue. He took a deep breath, hoping he wouldn’t regret this.  
  
“You know I died, right?” He said, his voice broke at the last word. “That night, when I went to the Forbidden Forest and faced him, I died.” Malfoy was looking at him with alarmed eyes.  
  
“But you-“  
  
“I came back,” Harry explained, staring at the ceiling again, finding comfort in the distant sound of the wind hitting their windows. He hoped his face didn’t look as worn and fatigued as he felt. He hated talking about it, the hollowness and silence that had met his ears after the green light had struck him, the feeling of panic when he’d opened his eyes again and hadn’t seen anyone. The guilt he’d felt when he’d known he had to come back and that suddenly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.  
  
“When your mother lied to Voldemort about me being dead, I had already come back. When I died, I woke up in King’s Cross and saw Dumbledore there. He told me I had a choice to come back. Or to stay where I was. I knew I had to come back, so I did.”  
  
“Mother says you walked to the Forest alone and just stood there,” Malfoy admitted quietly.  
  
Harry took a second to collect himself, he pushed the soles of his hands against his eyes, shivering. He felt Malfoy’s hand land hesitantly on his shoulder and squeeze.  
  
“Voldemort, when he killed my parents and tried to kill me, his curse rebounded, that’s how I got this scar.” Malfoy nodded; he probably knew this already. “That’s how he left part of his soul in me.” Harry felt the hand on his shoulder recoil and he moved his own hands, Malfoy was paler than he’d ever seen him. “I had to die, because Voldemort wouldn’t until all the fragments of his soul died as well. He didn’t know, of course, that I had a part of him in me as well. But Dumbledore did.

“He knew all along that I would have to die in order for Voldemort to be killed. He knew all along what I was, the role I would have to play, but he never told me any of it.” Harry’s vision glossed over, and he blinked away the tears that had formed in his eyes. “And now, I don’t know how to not be angry, I deserved to know, it was my _life_ . I had the right to know and now I want to move forward the way everyone has, but I’m _angry_ , at myself, at Dumbledore, at most people, really.”

Malfoy snorted, but there wasn't any bite or mockery to it. "They made you into a war weapon then told you to find peace.” Harry’s eyes widened, because up until now he hadn’t known a way of putting it in words. All those months of frustration and misery. When he’d realized he’d been used by a man he had once trusted with his life. When he’d come to understand he’d been nothing but a martyr. Yet still, although logically he knew this already, hearing it out loud from others still ached. Still made him feel like a fool for not seeing it before.  
  
“So you found this out during the battle, then simply walked out of the castle to your own death?” Draco questioned in disbelief.  
  
Harry couldn’t summon the energy to answer.

He heard the blond shuffle on the bed, until he was sitting next to Harry instead of before him and laid his head down on the pillow next to Harry’s, without looking at him. Harry felt strangely grateful that Malfoy knew when to give him privacy and look away, even if they were laying next to each other. He didn’t talk again for a while, choosing to focus on the labored breathing beside him and mirror it. Because it gave him something to cling on to. To ground himself on.  
  
Malfoy didn’t speak, but he didn’t leave either, as though somehow he knew Harry wasn’t finished and his presence was still needed.  
  
"Whenever I think about it, I feel like I was on autopilot that entire year. On survival mode, or something... I ask myself if I could do it again but I don't think I could, not even if my bloody life depended on it." Harry found himself saying after a few minutes of prolonged silence.  
  
“It’s easy to forget you were our age when you killed him,” Malfoy told him, Harry could feel the heat emanating from his pale skin even though they weren’t touching and he let himself get lost in the comfort of it. “You always seemed so unreachable, with what the papers wrote about you and the rumors of the things you’d done and now you tell me you walked to your death and came back for the sake of the Wizarding World, _Merlin_.” Harry never saw it as an act of bravery. He’d surrendered, he’d won out of pure luck.  
  
“When I found out what my faith would be. The only thing I could think of was that I didn’t _want_ to die. I wanted to have more time. I wanted to live. But I knew I had to. But now, sometimes I wish I hadn’t come back. I feel awful and selfish about it, but I do.” Malfoy turned to him now, staring at him as if he couldn’t quite figure him out.  
  
“ _Selfish_? Potter. Only you would think that of yourself,” Malfoy clicked his tongue. “No one else would have come back.”  
  
“I owed it to them,” Harry argued. “I had to.”

“For someone who dislikes being treated as a martyr, you do it to yourself quite a lot. You didn’t owe anyone anything, Potter.”

Harry had been told this before, by a weeping Molly who had found him sitting before the fireplace at four am in her living room, unresponsive and numb. By Hermione, with her harsh words and warm eyes. By Ron, with the awkwardness of his too-long arm wrapping around his shoulder. But he couldn’t accept it. So many people had died for him, _because_ of him, he couldn’t leave the others behind. He’d cost them all so much.  
  
“You don’t owe it to Dumbledore to forgive him either,” Malfoy said. “Not unless you want to, Potter.” Harry stared at Malfoy’s face, the sharp life of his cheekbones, his bright grey eyes, his soft, rosy lips, less than a meter away from him, and it was all so bizarre. How they’d ended up in this situation in the first place. He tried not to let himself dwell on it too much. The distance between them, the intimacy of their position.  
  
“I’m starting to think many things could have been different if you hadn’t been such a wanker in first year.” Harry wondered if Malfoy had always had it in him, or if the war had made him wise and sympathetic beyond his years. He couldn’t help the feeling of anticipation at the realization that they shared more than he had expected; he found himself eager to learn more about him and see him from this new perspective.

He knew it was dangerous just as it was exciting. He was well aware that his obsession with Malfoy had never really died down, it had just been pushed to the back of his mind by other matters. But he could sense it coming back at full force, worse of all, he could feel it shifting. It had altered from its original violent, vindictive and toxic nature to something much more powerful and consuming. Harry’s skin tingled whenever it came in contact with Malfoy’s, he found himself looking forward to their interactions, no matter how miniscule. He cherished the small talks and the teasing, the familiarity of sharing a room with him, the sharp wit and peculiar humor. Whenever Malfoy smiled at him, Harry felt _accomplished_.

The blond plagued his mind constantly, invading his thoughts with doubt and trepidation. Harry wished that whatever this was, it would settle down and become more manageable. Longing for Malfoy the way he did would only ruin him. It would never be reciprocated and if by some miracle it was, he would be betraying everyone that ever trusted him.   

\-    
  
"You and I will always be on opposite ends of history books, Potter, dwelling on what could have been won’t change that." And yet, despite all that he was laying in Potter’s bed next to him, in a dark room where reality seemed altered. Where the tension he always wore on his shoulders eased as the tug on his chest tightened. Where Potter looked at him and humored him like he was worth something. On a pillow that smelled like aftershave and tart that he’d probably nicked from the kitchens and _Potter_ . He let himself soak in the surrelity of it, just in case it was a cruel dream that only existed inside his brain, just to burn the comfort of it in his neurons.  
  
“I think after all that’s happened tonight, we ought to call each other by our first names, Draco. Or else it’s just weird.” Draco’s eyes widened, Potter— _Harry_ — had never referred to him as that.  
  
“If you insist,” Harry looked at him expectantly “ _Harry_ .” he added with a roll of his eyes. It sounded so much softer than Potter, using his last name carried an emotional baggage that put a barrier between them, trapped them under the weight of their history. But Harry rolled off his tongue easier, it sounded— _felt_ — effortless.

This, whatever they were sharing, could be gone when the morning came and Potter came to his senses. That thought made his chest clench unpleasantly. He’d become attached to the companionship already.

“What will you be doing for Christmas?” Harry asked him, he had turned his body to him and rested his face on him forearm, peeking at Draco from his dark eyelashes. Their faces were too close this way, only separated by the small distance between their pillows. It made Draco’s heartbeat pick up and hammer in his ribcage. The way Harry was looking at him like Draco was transparent and his every thought showed on his face made him wish he had the strength to look away.

Harry inspected him as if Draco had something on his face of great interest. His eyes were fierce and inviting, wide and searching. They reflected every emotion he was feeling. And Draco couldn’t figure out everything he saw in them without risking losing every wall he’d built around himself in the process. He couldn’t let himself dwell on what that look could mean.

“I’m not sure.” he replied, breathless, unwilling to break the spell that had washed over them by looking away, “I’ll spend it with Mother, probably. You?”

“The Burrow, probably.”

Draco hummed distractedly, he could barely focus on anything Potter was saying, his eyes were such an intense shade of green. Like the grass that shone beneath the snow in late February and promised the coming of spring; as bright as the colour of the Forbidden Forest during October after a night of rain. As deep as his mother’s most prized emeralds. It suited him, Draco thought, a sharp contrast to the darkness of his hair and lashes, complementary to his golden skin.

Harry had really lovely eyes, all in all.

He heard Harry’s sharp intake of breath and those very same eyes widened comically. Draco realized, to his horror, that he’d said the last bit out loud. He felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

“Er… thank you, I mean-” Draco would have found his stuttering endearing had he not been on the verge of a nervous breakdown at the moment “Everyone tells me I’ve got my mum’s eyes, actually.”

Draco nodded, hoping he could get away with faking sudden exhaustion and go drown in his shame in the safety of his own bed.

“You’ve got really lovely eyes, too,” Harry said. Draco couldn’t leave or look away, because Harry was blushing as well.

There is a particular moment that comes before a first kiss, in which your stomach tightens and the tension between the two people involved comes to the surface. Draco realized that the room had gone quiet, Potter was looking at him again, but this time, his stare kept flickering to Draco’s lips and he licked his own. Draco felt too weak to move, his whole body overcome with anticipation and anxiety. He hoped, _prayed_ , that he wasn’t reading too much into the situation.

He didn’t seem to be, however, for Harry’s laboured breathing matched his own, something he realized because at some point, either one of them had shifted closer to the other. They were so close, Draco would only have to reach up, tangle his hands in Harry’s hair and tug him in the remaining inches. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t muster up the courage to close the distance, his vision blurred around the edges. He didn’t have to, thankfully, Harry seemed to be bold enough for the both of them, he was close enough now that Draco would go cross-eyed if he looked at him, Merlin, Potter was going to _kiss_ him and-

 _HOOT_!

The sound of an owl flying next to their window broke them apart. Draco shot up from the pillow and got off the bed, head swimming. That damned beast and its bloody awful timing had ruined everything.

“Well, then,” he said, adjusting his clothes. “We’ve got to get some sleep.” Harry smiled at him from his position on the bed, soft and warm, and Draco almost wanted to climb back in with him and throw his inhibitions out the window.

“Night, Draco,” Harry said as Draco went back to his own bed and closed his curtains.

He smiled against his pillow. “Goodnight, Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! <3 read this chapter’s question above.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Hello? Long time no see? I am so so so bloody sorry it has taken me this long to update. But the chapter is finally here! I am not going to lie, these past couple of months have been the hardest of my life. I had so many finals and so many personal issues, and just wasn't motivated at all. I REALLY hope you enjoy this chapter and buckle in for the next one!
> 
> Last but not least, a massive massive thank you to my lovely Betas, madeoficeandfire and Aspera, also madeoficeandfire / eyelashesonentropy on tumblr, for this story would not be the same without their work and guidance.

“Are you absolutely certain?” asked Ron as he helped himself to another serving of sausages.

Hermione set her cup of Earl Grey back on the wooden table, lacing her fingers together thoughtfully, “Not absolutely, no, I’d say I’m 80 percent sure. It just cannot be a coincidence.” Ron hummed in agreement, “What do you think, Harry?” Ron and Hermione both turned their heads towards him. 

 

“Err, what?” Harry blinked, startled out of his thoughts. 

 

Hermione huffed disapprovingly. “You’ve been increasingly absent-minded the past few days, Harry. Are you ever going to tell us what's going on?” 

 

To his credit, Harry was to some degree aware of the topic of conversation going on beside him. He knew Hermione had ended up figuring out why their Common Room kept acting like a “ _defective_ _Room of Requirement”_ and from the few words he'd caught along the way, it had something to do with a complex charm and McGonagall. 

 

“I'm just a bit tired, I s’pose,” he mumbled. 

 

Under different circumstances, Harry would have listened to her and credited her for outsmarting them all once again, which was exactly what Ron seemed to have been doing thus far, if the grin on Hermione’s face a few minutes prior had been any indication. But currently, he frankly couldn’t bring himself to give a damn. He’d barely gotten a wink of sleep in the past few days, because if he remembered correctly, he’d almost  _ snogged Draco sodding Malfoy _ on his bed in the arse hours of the AM.

 

And if all of that wasn’t enough, while Harry spent far longer than he cared to admit trying to persuade himself into believing that he’d only just been delirious from fatigue and hadn't thought his actions through, his cock seemed entirely too fond of the concept, the great traitor. 

 

His only solace was that life had to reach a quota for tormenting him at some point; it would get tired sooner or later and move on to the next person.

 

Harry had also developed resentful feelings towards awfully timed owls, the blasted things. He was sure Hedwig would have never cockblocked him like this, bless her.

 

He felt a swell of emotion in his chest at her memory. He wished he could still pet her and talk to her, even if she didn’t reply, Harry was sure she’d understood him in her own way. She’d been his only companion during endless, lonely summers and sleepless nights.

 

“I said it can’t be a coincidence that when Pansy Parkinson helped you at the Leaky, a fireplace materialized in our Common Room. It has to somehow be linked to interacting with the Slytherins,” Hermione said with the firm, determined look on her face that Harry knew far too well.

 

“Hold on,” Ron said before Harry could muster a response. “What about the other times? With the flowers and the couch, and the book shelves that appeared shortly after the fireplace? I don’t recall anyone hanging out with the Slytherins around those times,” he pointed out.

Harry frowned, remembering how the flower vases had appeared on the day he had healed Malfoy and seen his tattoo. If inter-house unity was the common denominator, they were responsible for more than just the flowers.

 

Hermione clicked her tongue. “We don't know what happens after everyone goes to their dorms, Ron.”

 

Harry felt his cheeks heat up and he hoped it wasn’t too obvious. She certainly wasn’t wrong about  _ that _ , was she?

 

He couldn’t tell them yet, wasn’t ready to, even though they had been nothing but supportive when he’d come out to them. It was one thing to tell them he fancied blokes, but it was entirely another to admit that he might, quite possibly, fancy  _ Malfoy _ . 

 

He could even foresee The Prophet’s article on it, really.

 

Harry convinced himself that this strange form of fixation could be all traced back to him just recently coming to terms with liking men. He could blame it on teenage hormones and a bisexual crisis. But he knew he didn't think about other blokes the way he did about Draco. Or the way he briefly had about Oliver Wood or  _ Cedric _ , he just hadn't known what it was back then.

He found himself thinking about Draco constantly, wondering when they'd get to be alone and talk again the way they had that night. He would look at him across the Great Hall and get bloody  _ giddy _ when Malfoy looked back and gave him a small smile. 

 

He knew it was just a matter of time until others started noticing, but he didn't want them to. Their friendship felt safe and exciting, and it was the one thing Harry had that the entire world didn’t pester him or post on the papers about. It was their secret, and Harry wished to keep it that way.

 

He feared it wouldn’t go away, dreaded Draco’s reaction if he ever told him. Draco had, after all, bolted right out of bed when they'd been close to kissing. Had he been frightened and overwhelmed or had he been revolted? Was he even into men at all? Harry wasn’t sure. 

 

Ron poked him on the shoulder with his fork. “ _ Harry _ , mate, we’re serious, you alright? You keep spacing out.” Harry sighed and rubbed at his eyes.

 

“I said I was fine, just drop it, will you?” he groaned. Hermione pursed her lips, but before she could say anything, Ginny plopped on the table next to Harry and stole a sausage from Ron´s plate.

 

“Morning,” she chirped. 

 

“You seem to be in a good mood,” Ron noted. Ginny grinned at him and shrugged.

 

“Guess I am.” She flashed him a curious look when he lifted his hand and waved in salute. Harry knew that look, however, and groaned against his arms when he realized her arrival wouldn’t save him from dealing with his best friends’ worries. Ron and Hermione had been even more overprotective since the war had ended. Harry had needed it at the time; he knew he would have probably stayed in his bed in a dusty room that stank from lack of fresh air and food containers if it hadn't been for their help. 

“What's wrong with him?” she asked, pointing at him as if he wasn't right there.

 

“I can hear you perfectly fine, you know,” Harry said from his position against the table, the sound muffled by his arms.

 

“ _ You _ , have been ignoring me for a good week or two. I've earned the right to ask,” Ginny argued.

 

“I haven't been ignoring you, Gin.” And it was such a blatant lie that he couldn’t be surprised at the long look she threw at him. “Alright,  _ alright _ , maybe I have been distant the past few days, but it's got nothing to do with any of you, I promise,” he offered. Ginny’s piercing gaze softened, and the corners of her lips stretched in a warm smile.

 

“Harry, if anything’s troubling you--”

 

“There isn’t--” 

 

“But if there  _ was _ , we wouldn’t reprimand you for it,” she assured him, letting her hand drop beneath the table to squeeze his like she had on their first day. He squeezed back and nodded.

 

She dropped his hand and turned back to Ron and Hermione. “Anyway,” Ginny continued, reaching for the toast before her and taking a small bite. “Neville said something about you learning the secret behind that quirky Common Room of yours.”

 

Hermione perked up, seemingly dropping her plans of interrogating Harry. “ _ Yes _ . I noticed that around the same time Pansy Parkinson performed her calming magic on Harry, a fireplace emerged on the wall.”

 

Ginny seemed to tense at the mention of Parkinson, her lips pursed the way they always did when she felt troubled. “Well, then…” She cleared her throat. “the timing can't have been a fluke.” Harry frowned at the stiffness behind her tone, but chose not to comment on it.  _ He _ had manners unlike everyone else in his life.

-

 

“Oh, darling, these tête-à-têtes never disappoint me.” said Pansy as she wiped the tears from her eyes, careful not to smudge the sharp black wings of her eyeliner.

 

Draco glared as nastily as he could. “Glad my misery is a source of amusement for you, Pans.”

 

“You have got to admit it’s terribly funny,” she said. Draco responded with a roll of his eyes.

 

“Hardly, you are merely a dreadful excuse of a friend, you cow.”

 

She flipped him off from her position on his bed. “Now, now Draco, I know you don’t resort to name calling unless you’ve run out of arguments.” She tugged the sleeve of his jumper until he sat by her side.

 

“I haven’t got a single clue what he thinks about the entire ordeal. He’s been too bloody polite ever since, but we haven’t had a chance to talk.” Draco ran a hand through his hair with a deep sigh. Pansy’s grin softened, and she pinched his side, settling her head on his shoulders.

 

“Perhaps he’s under the impression that it was unintentional, or that he imagined it?” Pansy offered.

 

“There was nothing fortuitous about it, Pans.”

 

Draco hadn’t been able to focus on much else ever since the incident. He had too many questions and no one to answer them for him. He’d briefly pondered asking Harry, but that could go wrong in more ways than one, so he’d opted for silent brooding. He knew Harry was an idiot to some extent, but even he would have noticed what had occurred. They’d almost  _ kissed _ , for Merlin’s sake.

 

Then again, perhaps Harry thought it had been a dream, or decided to ignore it in favour of sparing them both the embarrassment of having to deal with it. That, and the fact that Harry kept acting like nothing had even happened was appalling.

 

Draco was too prideful to bring it up, so if Harry wouldn’t, they would probably never talk about it again and it would proceed to haunt Draco for the rest of his life.

 

“Then what are you so distraught about, dear? From what you said he didn’t oppose or turn away until you did. Have you considered that he may have wanted to kiss you as well?” 

 

Draco looked at her like she’d grown a second head, or lost the remains of her rationality. “I know you’re not this daft, darling. You’ve spent enough time with me. You ought to have sharpened your wits by now,” he teased, which earned him a sharp pinch to his stomach. Draco grunted and batted her hand away. “Potter’s as straight as they come.”

 

“Is he? You can’t possibly know that for sure, what happened to no assumptions?”

 

“Even if he wasn’t, he’s probably expected to marry the she-brute and have dozens of redheaded, green eyed offspring.” Pansy chuckled at this, leaning her head against the pillows. 

 

“Somehow, I doubt that,” she said flippantly as she wriggled out of her shoes and brought her legs up, laying them on his lap. “This does, however, disprove the polyamorous theory I had,” she said thoughtfully.

 

Draco sputtered. “The  _ what _ - ”

 

“Oh, come  _ on _ ,” she interrupted. “You’ve never even speculated about that golden trio? All that time alone must have gotten dull and tedious at some point. They ought to have done  _ something _ to pass the time, get themselves warm-” Draco clapped a hand over her mouth.

 

“That is single-handedly the most disturbing visual I’ve ever been subjected to.” He shivered in disgust. Pansy’s words were muffled by his hand, so he removed it.

 

“Such a prude for a man who almost shagged the Saviour of the Wizarding World.” She started laughing again, and Draco briefly pondered if he should just suffocate her with his pillow.

 

“There is a difference between prude and simply not gauche.” Pansy flapped her hand in a dismissive motion.

 

“I mean,” she continued breathlessly, because when had something as miniscule as politeness and sympathy kept her from tormenting him? “I’m positive that when the headmistress told us to promote inter-house unity she didn’t mean get  _ frisky _ with  _ Potty _ .” Her thin frame was shaking as she laughed, Draco found himself smiling and chuckling despite himself.

 

Draco needed new friends, he certainly did.

 

“Oh shush, you’re just jealous that your romantic life is as dreary as ever.” Pansy smirked at him deviously, brushing her bangs out of her face.

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, dearest,” she said, staring at her manicured nails with an arrogant expression that could only mean bad news. Draco stared at her in surprise.

 

“Who?” he asked, bewildered. “Which unfortunate man are you keeping ransom?”

 

Pansy got up from the bed and slipped on her shoes, stubbornly ignoring him, which was probably for the best, considering Draco was gaping like a fool. She headed towards the door, “Ta ta, darling, I won’t tell you for being so distasteful.” She smoothed her robes and winked at him. “Besides,  _ what _ have I told you about assuming?”

 

-

 

“It’s a good thing you didn’t have to save the world with your potions knowledge, Harry. We’d be dead by now had that been the case.” Draco smirked over the purple smoke emitting from the cauldron Harry was currently doubled over.

 

“And you just love being unhelpful, don’t you?” Harry gritted through his teeth, eyeing his partner’s effortless, book-consistent silver smoke potion sourly. “Would it kill you to tell me what I did wrong?”

 

Malfoy huffed, shoving Harry out of the way. “Let it be known that I’m doing this merely because we are grouped together, and I can’t have you tarnishing my immaculate record.” 

 

He picked up his wand and stirred the potion leisurely five times clockwise and then began stirring another five in the opposite direction.

 

Harry frowned and shuffled through the paragraph, “But it never said we needed to—”

Draco held up a finger, counting under his breath, his brows knitted in concentration. Harry’s mouth snapped shut, allowing him to use the time to study Draco.  Harry had never really been much of a fan of Potions, between the suffocating smell and the amount of attention they required; there were many other things he would rather do. But nowadays it was a great excuse to hang out with Draco, to study his features tense and then soften whenever he achieved a perfect result, to be captivated by the gleam of his grey eyes and high cheekbones, and the way he would discard his robes and open two buttons of his white shirt whenever the steam saturated the cool air that the Dungeons usually offered. He was a natural at this, Harry had noticed, with quick, precise fingers and an unwavering focus.

 

Draco set his wand back on the table and breathed out, the potion had stopped smoking entirely, and had gone back to the light grey colour it had before Harry had begun stirring. “The mistake you made was forgetting the 0.2 grams of crushed snake fangs,” he said, grabbing the powder from across the table and pouring it over the potion, then began stirring again. 

 

Harry groaned. “ _ Blimey _ , what can I do now?”

 

“Well, during my years brewing Potions I’ve realized that when it comes to forgetting a solid ingredient, you can reverse the damage by doing what I’ve just done as long as you haven’t added any other components and you’ve  _ only _ stirred the Potion.”

 

Harry gaped at him. “And the Potion will still turn out fine?”

 

“Not as long lasting, no. The shelf life will be remarkably shorter, but considering he’ll only check it today and base your grade upon that, you don’t need it to last.”

 

Harry grinned; clever, resourceful Slytherins and their methods. “That’s brilliant, you’re brilliant, thank you,” he said.

 

Draco’s cheeks blushed faintly, and he shrugged. 

 

“I heard you mutter something under your breath, though, was it a regressive charm of some sort?”

 

Draco looked at him from the corner of his eye and smirked. “Observant, Potter. But I’ll have to kill you if I tell you.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Does anybody else know about this? I’ve never heard about it, I don’t even think Hermione has, and that’s saying a lot.” The potion began fuming again, this time a seamless shade of silver, Draco smiled at it with the smallest hint of pride.

 

“Well, if anybody knows, they’ve stolen it from me,” he offered. “I haven’t told anyone about it, nor have I read it anywhere else.”

 

Harry had known, to some extent, that Draco was an intelligent person; he’d always been behind Hermione when it came to the top grades in their year. He’d been otherwise preoccupied with despising his existence to really dwell on it. But this, the fact that Draco had found a solution to one of the biggest issues for brewers wasn’t just an Outstanding in Charms or Transfigurations. It was revolutionary,  _ genius _ really. He had no clue why Draco wasn’t talking about it yet.

 

“Why haven’t you published this? I’m quite certain you’ve got a scientific breakthrough right here,” Harry asked. Draco’s stirring faltered for a second and the soft smile that he had on his lips was now tinged with bitterness.

 

“No one will want to pay attention to what I have to say, Harry,” Draco replied in a clipped tone “It’ll be either stolen from me and I’ll never receive any sodding credit for it, or I’ll be accused of having had thieved it from The Dark Lord and thrown into Azkaban. Either way the outcome isn’t pleasant.”

 

It didn’t sound snobbish or resentful, rather small and regretful, it settled deep within Harry’s stomach. He felt incomprehensibly angry. “I wouldn’t let that happen,” Harry assured him, resisting the urge to reach out and comfort Draco.

 

“I don’t need your  _ help _ ,” Draco snarled. “I don’t need your bloody altruistic compassion or your pity.” Harry was taken aback. Harry had always been considered a selfless person by his loved ones, acquaintances and the entire Wizarding World, really. But he’s always thought the title doesn’t quite suit him. His reasons for wanting to help Draco weren’t all noble.

 

He  _ wanted _ him around, wanted to see him turn his life around and perhaps get to be a part of it -  if Draco let him.

 

“That’s not why I’m doing this, Draco,” he said, indignant. “Have you stopped for one second to think that not everything I do is out of pity? That maybe I just don’t think you ought to pay the price for everything that happened? You were an arsehole, you were an immature piece of shit. But you were a kid, those around you might be more to blame than you are.”

 

“There are prices I’ll always have to pay, Harry.”

 

“And there are prices you deserve to pay, until you rectify what you did. But there are things that were out of your control, Draco. I’m not going to justify the way you treated others based on blood status, or the fact that you joined him. But I also know you lost a lot, I know you’ve paid plenty already.” It was so easy to forget he’d been a child as well, just as frightened as Harry had been, with just as much on stake as Harry. Draco had lost his family, his home, everything that had been a place of safety for him had been ripped away.

 

Harry wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to let go of all the resentment he felt towards him, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t recognize that looked that plagued Draco’s face as he wrote on his bed—or when he thought no one was looking.

 

Haunted.

 

Draco was quiet for a while, until the seven minutes were up, and he finished stirring the Potion. 

 

It was  _ perfect _ .

 

“I do plan on apologizing to her, if you must know,” he said, stretching the arm he’d been using to stir.  He was staring at someone at the front of the class.

 

Harry’s eyes followed, they landed on a head with voluminous hair, amplified by the humidity in the room. “To Hermione?” Harry whispered with a hint of surprise.

 

“Among a few, yes.”

 

“When are you doing it?” Harry asked, because really, he’d rather not miss that.

 

“When she stops looking terrifying, for one.” He eyed Harry as he finished pouring the Potion into a vial. “Why, Potter, you seem intrigued.”

 

Harry raised a brow at him. “We’re back to Potter, then?”

 

“No.” Draco repositioned the unused ingredients back into the basket. “ _ Harry _ just lacked the proper élan for the sentiment I was trying to convey, is all.”

 

Harry threw his head back and laughed, it earned him a dirty, concerned look from Slughorn. “In English, if you may,” he said, tone lower than it was before.

 

Draco scoffed, vexed. “It’s a  _ frequently _ used word, Harry, you’re just illiterate. Now that we’re on the subject, I might have a theory for that.”    

 

Harry threw him an unimpressed look, propping his cheek on his hand. “Go on, doctor,” he deadpanned.

 

“It all begins with you refusing my offer of friendship, therefore limiting your horizons to greatness and knowledge, you see.” Draco was smiling at him, clearly taking the piss.

 

Harry snorted. “Ah, yes, of course, my bad. If it’s any consolation, I spent years mourning all the missed opportunities.”

 

Draco’s smile widened, and it made Harry realize he could easily get used to this, the innocuous, relaxed banter between them. “Git,” the blond said.

 

“Tosser,” Harry shot back with a grin of his own.

 

“Arse.”

 

“Twat.”

 

“Prick.”

 

“Wanker.”

 

A loud bang echoed across the room as Professor Slughorn banged his palm against his desk, “Mr. Malfoy!” he hissed. “Quit distracting Mr. Potter.” 

 

Something flared in Harry’s chest as Draco’s face dropped and everyone turned to look at them. “I was the one distracting him if anything, Professor.” Slughorn looked rather irritated at the admission, but other than a clipped “ _ Very well _ ” he didn’t comment further. Hermione and Ron looked at Harry, their intended question apparent despite their distance. He nodded at both.

Draco was silent for the rest of their period; his jawline was tense, and his shoulders were set in a tight line. After they presented their work and Slughorn dismissed them, Harry waited outside the classroom while Draco finished packing his things.

 

Hermione and Ron left the classroom before Draco did and frowned upon seeing him propped against the stone wall.

 

“What happened there?” Hermione asked once they’d approached Harry.

 

“What do you mean?” he asked, rather preoccupied with making sure Draco didn’t slip past him in the crowd of students. Hermione slanted him an unamused look.

 

“The Ferret, mate, you two wouldn’t stop bloody chatting.”

 

“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten about my record of perfect behaviour along the years I’ve been here.” He replied flatly. Ron snickered, and punched him on the arm half-heartedly.

 

“As long as he isn’t bothering you—”

 

“He isn’t, Mione, I promise,” Harry assured her, and the tension of her posture eased but her gaze remained piercing and searching. “If anything, he’s funny when he’s not trying to make our lives miserable.”  

 

Both of their eyebrows shot up, and they regarded him with obvious scepticism.

 

“Has he spiked your pumpkin juice, mate?” Ron asked.

 

Harry snorted. “Not to my knowledge.”

 

Hermione seemed to struggle with herself for a moment before she sighed, and he knew this wasn’t the end of it. “Would you want to join us to the library? We’ve got a two hour break before Transfiguration.”

 

Harry swallowed audibly, scratching the back of his neck, it seemed unfit to tell them of his actual plans, not yet at least. “Err… I was actually planning to get some shut eye, I’m knackered, plus… I wouldn’t want to be a third wheel.” It wasn’t a total lie, really. He’d rather not watch Ron caressing Hermione’s leg as they studied.   

 

Hermione’s cheeks tinted a soft rosy colour. “It’s never been like that, and you know it.”

 

“Plus,” Ron started, wrapping his arm around Hermione’s waist. Hermione leaned into the contact. “You’ve been third-wheeling for a good eight years.”

 

The three of them laughed, and Harry felt a burst of affection for his friends bloom in his chest. “I know, you guys are brilliant, separately or together,” he admitted. “It would be nice if you included me in those hugs every once in a while, though.”

 

Ron and Hermione looked at each other, a mischievous gleam in their eyes, then they pounced on him, wrapping their arms around him and squeezing tightly. He struggled and gasped for air.

 

“I take it back!” he wheezed just as Hermione pinched his side and Ron planted a wet kiss on his cheek. “Ew!  _ Ow _ ! Go away!” Harry could feel both of them shaking with laughter against him before they released him, taking a step back.

 

“Anytime you want some sugar, mate.” Harry glared at him, but the corners of his lips turned up.

 

“You both suck,” he grumbled, wiping his cheek.

 

“Well, go get some rest, then,” Hermione told him, lacing her fingers with Ron’s and tugging him down the Hallway in the direction of the library just as Draco left the classroom, chatting with Pansy Parkinson. Draco still had the crease between his brows that almost never seemed to soften, but he looked at ease, his body language was relaxed and open, and he seemed engrossed in whichever animated story she was sharing with him.

 

Harry had often wondered about the nature of their relationship; he knew friendships didn’t necessarily evolve to any sort of romantic involvement (he and Hermione were an example) but he had never seen Draco with anybody else. Draco had taken Pansy to the Yule Ball as his date, and they seemed comfortable with body contact. Harry had often seen her leaning her head on Draco’s shoulder after she’d finished her meal—or what she ate of it— in the Great Hall, or linking her arm with his. He wondered if there was just something Draco wasn’t telling him or if it wasn’t mutual and that’s why he wouldn’t mention it.

 

Harry gathered whatever courage was left in him and strolled towards them. Parkinson noticed him when he was a few meters away, and one of her brows rose—dubious and observant—then she nudged Draco’s elbow.  

 

Draco turned around and froze, casting a subtle look at Pansy who had moved to looking entirely keen on listening.

 

Draco sighed. “Harry.”

 

“Draco.”

 

The pair looked at him expectantly, and he shifted in his stance, swallowing hard. “Err, I was going to spend the free time in the oak tree near the Quidditch field, I thought you might want to come with me?” Harry all but squeaked.

 

Parkinson’s other eyebrow joined the first one, disappearing beneath her fringe, and he thought of how he must look right now—like a bloody pillock asking Draco on a date—which wasn’t that far from the truth, really, but she didn’t need to know that.

 

Draco closed his eyes briefly, looking a tad irritated, and Harry could have sworn he was having the exact train of thought, but the soft colour that had appeared on his cheeks belied the sentiment, “Sure, Harry, I don’t see why not.”

 

Harry made an effort not to glance in the direction in the ill-concealed look of roguish smugness that Parkinson had on.

 

“Well, then, I won’t stall your little  _ rendezvous _ . I’ll see you later darling, ta-ta!” and with that, she turned around and vanished within the mob before Harry could ponder on her suggestive tone.

 

\---

 

“Isn’t she a pleasant gal?” Harry commented once they’d sat down. The thick trunk and long branches provided shelter from the otherwise cold, unforgiving December weather. The sky had cleared more than it usually did around this time of the year, and Harry found himself enjoying the soft warmth of it against his skin.

 

Draco smirked and pulled out his wand, casting warming and cushioning spells. “Who, Pansy? Ignore her, she wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

 

“She’d torment it for days and then release it back into the world as a traumatized individual, then?” This earned him a shocked laugh. 

 

“Sounds about right, yes,” Draco said, “Although I’m pretty sure flies don’t have life spans that long.”

 

Harry flapped his hand dismissively. “Unimportant technicalities.”

 

“ _ Technicalities _ ? My,  _ my _ , Harry Potter, I must be rubbing off on you,” Draco teased. Harry bit the inside of his cheek before he could embarrass himself and say “ _ You rubbing yourself off on me doesn’t sound nearly as revolting as it should _ .”

 

“Oh, sod off, my vocabulary has always been fine.”

 

“If by fine, you mean mediocre.” Draco bumped his shoulder against Harry’s, the touch lingering before retreating, and Harry missed it as soon as the moment had passed. He leaned his back against the hard bark, a rich brown colour, and found that Draco had extended his charm to reach there as well.

 

The tree reeked of age, clearly ancient and somehow emitting a pulse of magic that prickled Harry’s skin. Harry had found it soothing when he was younger and was glad to see that it had not changed despite everything, that it still seemed to stand tall and proud as if the war hadn’t tainted it.

 

They didn’t speak for a few minutes, but the silence was comforting rather than awkward.

Harry began picking up crunchy twigs from around him and snapping them in two to keep his hands and mind occupied, and in a rather pathetic attempt to not stare at the column of Draco’s throat as he leaned back against the wood as well and closed his eyes.

 

“What are your plans after Hogwarts?” Harry whispered as he wrapped his robes tighter around himself, casting another Warming Charm. He sighed as the warmth settled and soothed his skin.  

 

Draco wouldn’t meet his eye as if he had found something engrossing on the hills that lead to the castle. Harry knew better.

 

“I haven’t got a clue,” Draco said after a while. “Some would say my options are rather limited, wouldn’t they?” He sounded so caustic and burned out that Harry regretted ever asking. He knew this was a sensitive subject for Draco, was aware of the position he was in. Harry himself had no clue what his future would look like, all the plans he had set for himself—become an Auror, marry Ginny—had failed miserably. They were no longer what he wanted, even though they were what was expected of him.

 

“I don’t know either,” Harry admitted. “It hasn’t even been a year since the War, Draco. Give people time.” He couldn’t remember when the future had stopped thrilling him; his plans had been his safe place, his reasons to fight and keep going, and his reasons to come back. Harry often wondered if he had peaked at seventeen and nothing he did from now on would ever live up to it. He feared he might need to sacrifice what he desired for what the Wizarding World needed. He dreaded an unfulfilling life full of regret.

 

He didn’t know when his life had become a terror in resonance.

 

Draco scoffed. “Time won’t erase what happened, Harry. People lost their loved ones, their homes, I was part of the group responsible for it.” Draco’s hand was absently scratching the mark beneath his robes. He looked at Harry then, grey eyes sharp and intense. “And as for  _ you _ , you could be anything you could possibly want, you’re their  _ hero _ , Harry. Don’t act like you aren’t aware of it.”

 

Harry couldn’t pretend he didn’t understand the bitterness in Draco’s voice. He was sure Draco had ambitions, that he had set goals for himself that he still wanted, yet he feared he wouldn’t be given the opportunity to even try to accomplish them. It made him feel ungrateful, for having so much and wanting none of it. He hadn’t forgotten how it had been for him, watching Dudley whine and scream about the number of gifts he had received whereas Harry hadn’t gotten any. Dudley had a mother and a father, who were alive, who loved him and showered him with their affection and Harry had only gotten pushed around. Yet his cousin had been nothing but unappreciative; he thought now that perhaps this was how Draco felt about him.

 

With his heart pounding in his chest he reached for Draco’s hand—the one scratching his arm—and removed it, replacing it with his own. Draco’s breath caught, and Harry wanted to know if it was a mere surprise or if he was just as affected, just as breathless as Harry was.

 

“You said it yourself - all that heals has hope. People will heal, so will you. You’re growing and changing and trying to do better, and as time passes people will notice that. Your story isn’t the same as that of other Death Eaters, and—” he swallowed and tightened his grip, his face was  _ burning, _ “—and I think you’ll be mad successful at whatever you decide to do, because you’re brilliant, and it’s only a matter of time until others realize that as well.”

 

His heart was beating so loudly that he was sure Draco could hear it. Draco was staring at him and Harry had never seen him look so shocked and unrefined. It seemed as if time around them had frozen entirely, he couldn’t even make out the sound of the wind ruffling the branches or the birds of the Forest chirping. He was only aware of Draco and his scent, how pink and plump his lips looked in this moment, and how much heat radiated from his arm, making Harry want to touch him more. He thought of leaning in and kissing him, but he couldn’t, not when Draco was this vulnerable and exposed.

 

Then Draco brought his own hand up and clutched Harry’s, squeezing softly. He smiled at him and it was so  _ genuine _ , that the crease between his brows smoothed out. It was the first time Draco had touched him like that–their touching was always initiated by Harry—and it felt so  _ intimate _ that Harry could have lost himself in the feeling.

 

Draco cleared his throat, “Thank you.” He breathed out.

 

“I—of course,” Harry stammered. He could barely breathe. He couldn’t look away.

 

“I thought you wanted to be an Auror,” Draco asked, his thumb was drawing circles on Harry’s hand. Harry was so distracted by it he barely heard him.

 

“I used to. Not anymore.”

 

“Tired of fighting?”

 

Harry nodded.

 

“As much as it pains me to admit it, Potter, you’re not incompetent, and you have potential for more than just murdering a madman, you’ll figure it out,” Draco smirked at him, and Harry shoved his shoulder. They both laughed, lenient and overwhelmed.

 

“What kind of potential do you think I have?” Harry asked once he’d caught his breath.

 

Draco looked at him then, sizing him up openly. “Stop fishing, Boy Wonder, it’s rather unbecoming of you.” 

 

“Rude Slytherins,” Harry said, feigning hurt.

 

“Sentimental, indecorous Gryffindors,” Draco shot back, grinning, and Harry felt like the world had righted itself somehow at the open expression on Draco’s face. 

 

Neither of them noticed their Warming Charms had died out.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings earthlings. I'm back! this time after four weeks instead of 9 like last time, that's something, right? Firstly, I cannot believe the fic has reached 10,000 hits, that's bizarre! Thank you to those who have given it a try, and an even bigger thank you to those who continuously come back to see if this trainwreck has updated or not! I appreciate all of you, your kind words and your patience. I want to apologize for the lack of Draco / Harry interactions in this chapter, but these things just needed to happen for Harry's healing process, alright! I promise you shall receive what you ask for soon. 
> 
> Nicht zu vergessen, that I have the loveliest Betas in the world. Thank you to madeoficeandfire and Aspera, also madeoficeandfire / eyelashesonentropy on tumblr for their wonderful work. I am very lucky to have you both! 
> 
> Now, grab your tissues and I hope you enjoy the chapter! (and remember, lower the pitchforks, I'm just a poor soul that likes writing angst)

The last two weeks before the Christmas holidays went by uneventfully, as Harry carried on with the routine he—or Hermione, rather—had set for him. He dedicated at least two and a half hours of his weekdays to revising, (although some days he reduced that to an hour, opting to fly or busy himself elsewhere to clear his mind) and on the weekends, he took care of most of his homework and revised some more. It had crossed Harry’s mind plenty of times to relax for now and worry about NEWTs later, but it didn’t help that Hermione would randomly quiz him and Ron during breakfast or supper about a study guide she had prepared—colour coded—and given them to go through as much as they could. Hermione would regard him and Ron with a twitch of her lips and a disappointed frown whenever they didn’t know the answer, grousing under her breath.

Harry valued her help as much as he begrudged it, though, seeing as he was still clueless of what he wanted to do once he’d sat his NEWTs and completed his education at Hogwarts. He didn’t want to get career opportunities handed to him on a silver platter because of who he was.  

He rubbed one hand over his eyes as he flipped through the binders Hermione had put together for each of them. She’d handed them seven binders each—numbered from one to seven, one for each year—each binder was then classified in the subjects of their upcoming NEWTs that they’d taken during that year, and each subject was defined by a specific colour. Defence Against the Dark Arts was purple, Charms was orange, Transfigurations was blue, and so on. The study guides she would prepare would be colour coded as well, clauses highlighted with yellow were of uttermost importance, seeing as they were topics that were often asked about in NEWTs, paragraphs highlighted with green were of medium significance, and paragraphs in blue were mostly redundant, but Hermione had insisted it wouldn’t hurt to read them over whenever they had free time.

Harry wouldn’t be wasting his free time revising unnecessary information, but  _ she  _ didn’t need to know that.  

It had taken Harry an embarrassing amount of time to figure out how to organize his papers, old essays and notes - even after Hermione had spent an entire Friday afternoon meticulously describing the mechanisms of the folders and subfolders - but he had managed, and was now infinitely grateful for Hermione’s brilliance and worrying need for organisation and control. He grabbed the seventh-year folder and placed it in his trunk, knowing—albeit unenthusiastically—that he’d need it during the hols to write the four essays he’d been given, and as a last-minute decision packed his third-year folder, the one he was currently reading, hoping he’d be motivated enough to get some work done if he ever grew bored.

Hermione would be immensely proud, really.

\---

The Burrow hadn’t changed much during his absence, Harry thought, oddly comforted, as he stood before it. The weather in the outskirts of Ottery St Catchpole was kinder than that of Scotland, offering breaks of almost-warm sun between the bursts of unforgiving snow. Harry looked at the house again and thought it bizarre, how such a crooked, ill-structured cottage could hold so much history and yet still stand proud and tall.

Much like Hogwarts, this place, tucked between rolling hills and abundant meadows, had been a safe place for him.

The wooden door banged open before Harry could reach out for it, revealing a beaming Molly wiping her hands on her apron. Her red hair was swept behind her ears with a coloured bandana.

“Oh, Harry! Come here!” She pulled him into a tight embrace, she smelled of citrus and sweet, indicating a possible Lemon Pie waiting for them inside, and Harry wrapped his hands around her, hugging her back.

She pulled back, holding his face between her slightly calloused hands, her eyes warm and gentle despite her obvious scrutiny of him, “I see you haven’t been eating much, dear. You’re thin as a stick! I ought to owl Minerva to keep an eye on you.” Harry chuckled and felt a hand pat him on the shoulder sympathetically.

“I don’t reckon the Headmistress has got time to play house with Harry, Mum.” Ron grinned.

Molly tutted, clearly unimpressed, but pulled him into a hug as well, ruffling his hair.

“My Ron!” she wept, squeezing Ron none-too-gently. “Your dad is terribly sorry he couldn’t pick you up. He’s still stuck at the Ministry. Cruel lot, I tell you, wouldn’t let him off to see his children for the first time in months.” She seized Ron by the shoulders, looking him up and down the way she had Harry. “You haven’t been returning all my letters,” she said sternly.

Ron shrugged, his ears going red, “You send far too many, Mum, it’s hard to keep up,” he mumbled.

Molly smile dropped around the edges, and Harry could see the moment Ron realized what he’d said and regretted it.

Harry knew how the years had had their way with her; it wasn’t a matter of the veins on her wrists protruding due to thinning skin or the time-faded strings of what had once been bright red hair. It was a matter of all that this war had stripped away from her. He remembered how her Boggart had been her children, and even Harry, dead. How she’d gripped her wand so tight her knuckles had turned white as she cried, and she’d tried to “ _ ridikulus _ ” it away. 

Harry felt his stomach tighten at the thought that her worst fear had come true, and it would never leave her. Everlastingly present, everlastingly devastating.

There was a fatigue engraved on her worn face that had nothing to do with exhaustion or age, but with worry and sorrow.

She’d sent an unusual number of letters over the past few months, demanding constant reassurance that they were okay, sharing details about how everything was going at home in small pieces of coffee-stained parchment and shaky handwriting. The owls would drop them on the table unceremoniously; the quantity was usually enough to knock over the goblets of pumpkin juice and cups of tea. A part of Harry was frustrated—annoyed even—but he knew she couldn’t help herself; he knew concern and fear must plague her the way it did him, but on a different level, a maternal one.

“Come on, mum,” said Ginny as she approached the pair, giving Ron a cross look. “I get a hug too, right?”

Harry looked away as he spotted Molly wiping the corner of her eyes with a small smile on her lips. He walked inside as Hermione approached them and was hit with the familiar scent of spices, parchment, and rusted cauldrons.

He sauntered into the living room and sat on one of the armchairs near the fireplace, the wireless was on, playing a melody Harry did not recognize. His eyes fell on the wall opposite from him, and on the clock, that hung on it. Harry had prevented himself from looking at it before, afraid of knowing where the hand with Fred’s name on it would point. This time he didn’t look away.

Molly, Ginny, George, and Ron’s hands all pointed to “home”.  Arthur’s indicated he was traveling, probably on his way back to The Burrow. Bill, Charlie, and Percy’s hands were all nestled next to each other near the word “work”. Eventually, he found the golden hand with Fred’s name on it.

It pointed to  _ Lost. _

“Blimey,  _ Fred _ ,” he said with a shaky breath and a heavy feeling in his chest. It made everything so  _ real _ and inescapable. He got up from his position, unable to keep looking at it. “I miss you, mate. We all do.”

Harry padded his way to the kitchen at the back of the house, finding it cluttered with the food Molly had prepared for them. The large table had a stack of plates and utensils on one end, waiting to be distributed. He leaned against it, taking a deep breath.

Harry heard the others walk in and walked to the sink to splash icy water on his face. He would get through these holidays. He owed them that much.

-

Arthur arrived shortly after. They each took turns humouring him, and Harry used his to teach Arthur about aeroplanes. The man had seemed completely delighted. “So this is their version of an International Portkey? Fascinating,” he’d said, promising Harry the two of them would board a flight together sometime.

Percy was home by dinner time. He shrugged off his robe, gave his mother a kiss, and sat down next to his father to discuss the recent scandal involving the Ministry Headquarters of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. A subject they refused to share since it was still classified and hadn’t been opened to the public yet. At dinner, he was pleasant and shared his advice regarding the NEWTs with the trio and Ginny. Hermione had managed to jot down most of it until Molly scolded her and asked her to continue after she’d finished her meal.

Charlie arrived the next day, carrying dubious amounts of shrunken Firewhiskey, Butterbeer, and traditional Romanian spirit by the name of Țuică, prepared only from plums. They started a big fire in the backyard as soon as the sun set, using an Isolation Charm to prevent most of the chilly air from coming in, yet permitting the smoke to exit their bubble.

“The lad of the hour,” Charlie said as he plopped down next to Harry on the wooden benches they had conjured. The drinks he held in his hand sloshed, spilling over the edges. He looked good, Harry thought. His hair was pulled into a ponytail and he had a stubble like he hadn’t shaved in a week or so. Harry had always found him attractive,  with his slim yet muscular build, a few inches taller than Harry, broad shoulders and a charming smile.

Charlie handed Harry a pint.

Harry took it with a grateful nod. “Is that what they’re calling me nowadays?”  he mused.

Charlie grinned and took a sip of his own drink, the Țuică, grimacing at the bitter taste. “’Fraid so, mate.”

“I hardly read the papers at this point, I wouldn’t know,” Harry confessed. Charlie pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offering one to Harry.

Harry shook his head, Charlie shrugged and pulled one cig out and put it in his mouth, lighting it with the tip of his wand, then inhaling.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked.

“No, not at all,” Harry assured him, watching in fascination as Charlie held it between the second and third knuckles of his index and middle finger, took a deep drag and exhaled.  

“Didn’t take you for a smoker,” Harry admitted.

The smile Charlie gave him was a mixture of bitter and amused. “I didn’t used to. One night I was sitting in the Sanctuary so worried I spaced out and got my forearm burned by one of the Romanian Longhorns, I was lucky it was only a third-degree burn and we were able to fix it. Could have lost it. The fire of Longhorns is vicious, I tell you. I’ve still got the nasty scar.” His smile widened, inexplicably affectionate as he pulled back his sleeve and showed Harry his left forearm, where a patch of skin was healed but still pitted and rigid, mellowed into a shade darker than his.

Charlie must have sensed Harry tensing beside him, because he patted his shoulder. “Point is, my boss told me to smoke whenever I was feeling that anxious, and eventually I picked up the habit.”

Harry was saved from coming up with a reply as Percy walked past them, discussing Ministry matters with his father and complaining about the Auror Department, his face stern and peevish.

Charlie chuckled as he watched his brother pull out a folded piece of parchment from his pants and show it to an uninterested Arthur. “Looks like my little brother isn’t too pleased with the Aurors,” he bumped Harry’s shoulder with his playfully. “Good thing you’ll be there soon enough. Establish some order and all that.”

Harry scratched the back of his head. What had once sounded exhilarating was now dreadful. He couldn’t imagine having to do it for the rest of his life. Didn’t think he could. Harry took a deep breath, hoping that Charlie wouldn’t react negatively to what he was about to voice out loud. “Don’t really want to be an Auror anymore, though, so there’s that,” he admitted, feeling like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders as soon as the words had left his mouth.

It felt  _ good _ to say it, incredible, even.

Charlie paused as he flicked the bum, raising a brow at him. “That’s a bummer… what, then, wag off?”

He stared darkly into his bottle before draining it. “No clue, really.”

The hand on his shoulder returned, this time as a steady, reassuring touch instead of a pat. “Well, you should consider joining me in Romania, if dragons are your thing. I could set up for you to come over and stay for a fortnight during Easter.” He cast a look at Ginny across the fire, who was teaching Ron how to open a Butterbeer can with his elbow. “I could even set you up with one of our ladies. We’ve got some lovely gals at the Sanctuary.”

Harry swallowed, remembering his conversation with Ron and Hermione after they’d come back from the Leaky where he’d come out to them and Ron had told him Charlie was gay. “Or—or a bloke, you could set me up with a bloke too.”

Charlie broke off mid-inhale, coughing. “Come again?” he wheezed.

Harry felt his face heat up and he crossed his arms, staring stubbornly at the fire and hoping it would swallow him and end his embarrassment. “I’m not saying that again.”

Charlie was openly gawking at him, a look between disbelief and like Father Christmas had come early. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Charlie whistled. “You’re serious, then? Bollocks.  _ Bollocks. _ Harry Potter, bent? That’s the best thing that has happened to Gay Wizarding Britain since, well,  _ ever _ . They’ll have to let us marry now.”

Harry laughed, startled. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“That’s great, mate. Really, thank you for telling me.” He let the cigarette drop to the ground, stepping on it to put it out. “You’re not out yet, I take it?”

“Merlin, no, not yet, the Daily Prophet will have a field day. Hermione and Ron know, though.”

Charlie nodded, “Gins?” he required.

“Not, I’m sort of terrified to tell people.”

“Where you put your cock is no one’s business, chap.”

Harry swallowed, thinking of Draco, and how the world—even his friends would react to it. “Unless it is.”

“It isn’t. You’ve never owed anyone a thing, you know.”

“What if it isn’t about it being a man.” Harry fiddled with his empty bottle. “What if it’s about who that man is, what if choosing him might cost me the friendship I have with some people?”

Charlie was silent in his contemplation, and when he finally spoke, he didn’t press. “Then they aren’t friendships worth keeping, Harry. And others will come around. You deserve to do something for yourself too.”

-

When Christmas Eve rolled around, Harry realized what the unsettling feeling in his chest was.

It had never felt any less like Christmas. Not even with the Dursleys.

Molly hadn’t decorated the way she had in previous years. The wave of cheer and joy and magic in its purest form that would envelop the atmosphere every year was dull, almost absent. The sound of the paper crinkling as it was wrapped around surprises, the sweet fragrance emanating from the real fir tree that stood tall in the living room, complementing the fragrance of the flavours in the oven, the warmth of the fire soothing their skin after a fight in the snow, the shimmering lights that hung on the streets, their glow infinite and promising, the taste of that first Christmas chocolate, rich and heady. None of them were present, overwhelming all his senses the way they used to.

Harry still hadn’t seen George. It worried him - of course it did - but he couldn’t bring himself to go up to his room the way Ron did every day, or like Molly would to bring him meals. He couldn’t bring himself to face him.

“December is a particularly tough time for him,” Molly had said the day before as she scooped him a plate of roast and mashed potatoes and carried it upstairs. No one had said a word, but Harry had noticed the way Ginny had gripped her fork tighter, and Percy had excused himself a few minutes later, even though his plate was still half full.

On Christmas Eve, Bill and Fleur arrived. The day had been chaotic, they had all received a list of chores to take care of before the clock hit eight in the evening.

Regardless of Harry’s expectations for the evening, everything seemed to be going well. Dinner looked and smelled spectacular, the stuffed turkey was mouth-watering, and Harry helped himself to a serving of roasted potatoes and gravy. Bill had been sharing a story of the latest job he’d been called to, a rare, ancient curse engraved on a mirror that hung in Buckingham Palace, and Harry found himself listening and chuckling. The tension in the air seemed to lessen as their plates became emptier and Harry was grateful that he hadn’t chosen to stay at Hogwarts this year.

In retrospect, he should have known it had been going far too well.

Harry shot up from the table after he’d finished eating with the intention of going to the loo, as he exited the kitchen, he heard footsteps coming from the staircase.

He looked up and froze.

Harry almost didn’t recognize him, for the man that stood before him looked nothing like the George Weasley he’d grown accustomed to. His hair was long and disheveled, his frame was much thinner than before, his cheekbones jutting out unnaturally. His eyes, usually mischievous and cheeky, were sunken in by dark shadows, hollow. He had a rough, uneven patch of stubble. As if he couldn’t grow a proper beard but couldn’t arse himself to shave it off.

He swallowed. “George,” he said, trying to sound casual, and fooling absolutely no one.

George nodded at him, not quite meeting his eyes, his mouth set in a tight line. “Is dinner over yet?” He’d sounded so detached, so unlike himself, so wrecked beyond repair that Harry felt his throat tighten painfully, his vision blurring at the edges.

George couldn’t even  _ look _ at him.

“No—no, I was just—everyone else is still sitting.” George nodded again and strolled past him without any further words, heading towards the kitchen.

Harry hurried towards the loo and locked himself as soon as he was inside. He stood before the mirror, breathing heavily—yet not feeling any of the air enter his lungs. With shaky fingers, he turned on the water and splashed some of it on his face.

George had always had such a radiant, brilliant presence to him. Almost as if he could make you forget what was troubling you just by speaking to him. All of Harry’s memories of him, of  _ them _ , had always been pleasant. He remembered wicked grins as they tried to rescue him out of Private Drive in their father’s Ford Anglia, playful winks as they handed him the Marauders Map, their shocked, grateful faces when Harry handed them the galleons he’d won.

George’s laughter echoing Fred’s as he shouted “Give her hell from us, Peeves.”

Harry didn’t know much about soulmates, wasn’t sure they were real. The concept that everyone had a soul out there that would complete their own was frightening, if not unrealistic. Some even went as far as calling it “one’s promised” but were they? Harry had learned long ago that death was the only promise that life, cunning and deceitful as it was, would ever truly keep.

What he did know, was that Fred and George had been two halves of a whole. They were at their best in each other’s presence, and Harry had often wished he could have a connection of that sort with someone.

Elemental, eternal.

And now, because Harry wouldn’t die when he was supposed to, George would never be whole again.

Harry had taken so much from them, had damaged them all. He didn’t deserve their gentleness, to be welcomed into their home and break bread with them. He couldn’t blame George for loathing him. He had cost them everything.

So many lives lost.

Suddenly, it was too much. The indistinct murmurs of surprise and delight a few feet away from him as George joined the table for the first time in what must have been months, the clinking of the plates and the utensils that rippled through the walls, the small, asphyxiating space was surrounded by. He couldn’t make out his reflection in the mirror properly anymore, even as he leaned his hands on the sink for support.

He needed to  _ leave _ , go somewhere where he could breathe again.

As the room spun and the pressure on his chest constricted him, Harry closed his eyes, thinking of anywhere safe, thinking of home.

He felt the pull of Apparition before he could even register wishing for it.

-

The next time he opened his eyes, everything around him was a swirl of blurred white, grey and deep brown; he blinked, making his eyes fall back into focus and he realized he was in a street lined with quaint cottages leading up to a church. A thick layer of snow hugged the ground, it sparkled and crunched beneath his feet.

_ Home _ , that’s what he’d asked for, and his magic had brought him to Godric’s Hollow.

He wrapped his arms around himself, having forgotten his jacket, and muttered a warming charm, sighing deeply as the heat seeped in. He watched as his breath rose in visible puffs to join the clouded sky and found himself wishing for time to pass so the first signs of spring would bloom, bold and colourful.

He didn’t realize he was walking down the icy road to the graveyard behind the church until he saw the naked trees that lined it. He skirted through the rows of gravestones that dotted the landscape before him, half buried under a white blanket of snow that made them glisten like precious rocks. The frigid wind blew bitterly as the full moon cast its light on them, only to be blotted out by the clouds from time to time. Harry cast a  _ Lumos _ , dispersing the pitch-black darkness.  

Out of memory, he strolled until he found the engraved words he was looking for.

**James Potter** , born 27 March 1960.   **Lily Potter** , born 30 January 1960.

Died 31 October 1981.

_ The Last Enemy That Shall Be Destroyed Is Death. _

The three, recently added tombstones beside them read,

**Sirius Black** , born 3 November 1959, died 18 June 1996.

_ Uncompromisingly unique, fiercely courageous. _

**Remus Lupin** 10 March 1960.  **Nymphadora Tonks** born c. 1973.

Died 2 May 1998.

_ Death is not the extinguishing of the Light, but the putting out of the lamp, because Dawn has come. _

Seeing Sirius, Remus and Tonks’ deaths eternalized on a stone was shocking, even though he had been present when they had perished, and when they’d been lowered into the ground.

Sirius, in a metaphorical sense, of course.

It had happened a week after the Battle of Hogwarts. He didn’t remember much of that day, there had been a fog around him—one only he could see—shielding him from the outside. He recalled walking, numbly listening to everyone’s words and the sounds of their grief. His body present, his mind absent. The fog hadn’t gone away for a long time. It had felt like drowning, then being pulled out and gasping for air just as he was about to lose consciousness, only to be pushed back in immediately. Floating, sinking, endlessly looping, but never dying.

Harry remembered the pungent stench of corpses that had lingered beneath his nose for weeks, making it impossible to eat or focus.

And yet, now, he felt compelled to speak, to carry on a conversation even though they had lost their ability to speak. He thought— _ hoped _ —they might be able to hear him regardless.

“Hello, everyone,” Harry whispered shakily. An eerie silence followed, drowned by the humming of the wind against the branches of the trees. “It’s me, Harry.” Hot tears warmed his skin. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit before. I reckon you know by now that I somehow managed to live,  _ again _ . Is it odd that I had somehow been looking forward to being with you guys? I wanted to meet my mum and my dad, properly. I wanted to tell you so many things and ask you even more. For so many years I clung on to whatever I could find about you. And—and just as the Killing Curse was about to strike me, I thought I would be with you, and I would be alright.”

He heard distant footsteps but paid them no mind.

“I hope you’re all together. I hope you saw Dad again, Sirius. I know how much you wanted to. I don’t know where souls go after death, but I hope you all went to the same place,” he sniffed, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper. “I miss you all so much.  _ Merlin _ , Remus, Tonks, you should see how big Teddy has gotten. Andromeda sent me a photo of him. She says he refuses to have his hair in any colour other than blue.” He chuckled. “I ought to visit them soon, I bought Teddy a “miniature, interactive Quidditch field”, I think. The old lady at the store said it was for babies. I think he’ll love it.” He smiled sadly, his eyes welling up with tears again, “I wish you were here to see him. I’m—I’m so sorry. You’re all dead, no chance of coming back and all I do sometimes is wish I was there with you. I can’t tell anyone about it either, they’d think me mental, and lock me up in St. Mungos. I want to do right by you, I swear I will, as soon as I figure out how,” he promised, his voice cracking.

He took a deep breath, willing himself to breathe. “I’m back at Hogwarts. They’re giving us another chance to sit our NEWTs. McGonagall is headmistress now. She’s brilliant at it. Don’t worry, ‘Mione is making sure I revise properly. I—I don’t think I want to be an Auror anymore, I used to, I wanted to be one just like you, Dad. But I don’t think I can anymore,” Harry admitted, and somehow, he knew his father would never be upset at him for something like that.

He fidgeted with his sleeves, knowing it was better to say what he wanted to now and not leave it for later, he felt a rush of courage, of love and acceptance, as if their souls were standing around him, touching his shoulder in a gesture he couldn’t feel physically, but knew was there nonetheless. “Err—I like blokes, and girls, too. I guess I’m bisexual? I hope you guys have heard the term before, Merlin knows I hadn’t.” He huffed out a laugh. “Anyway, this is as close to coming out to my family as I’ll ever come. It wasn’t as bloody terrifying as I thought it’d be.”

He heard someone clear their throat behind him and he had turned on his heel and pointed his wand at them before he could realize what he was doing. At the tip of his wand was an old woman that reminded him far too much of Bathilda Bagshot, despite the differences in their appearance.

The woman gasped and drew her hands up. “My boy, I mean no harm, no harm at all,” she said in a rush, staring at him with wide eyes obscured with cataracts to the point that Harry couldn’t tell their colour. Harry lowered his wand hesitantly, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

The woman breathed out in relief. “I apologize for startling you, I was just passing by and saw you standing here, and thought you looked an awful lot like Harry Potter. You are, aren’t you?” Harry sized her up, and when she didn’t seem to have any ulterior motives, he nodded.

“My name is Rosa Teigean, but you can call me Rosa.”

She moved to stand beside him, watching the graves with a mournful look. “I knew them, your mother and father. They were some of the loveliest people I ever met,” she told him, her voice tight and sincere, and the tension Harry felt lessened. “Children. In the beginning of their lives, full of light. You resemble them so much.” She smiled at him, pulling her cloak tighter around herself.

Harry fell silent, his chest heaving.

“They may be gone,” she started, her jaw set in a tight line, her lip trembled. “But we haven’t forgotten. We remember the 31st of October in 1981. Godric’s Hollow remembers.” Harry knew in a distinct place of his mind that he was crying, but he couldn’t bring himself to dry the tears. Miss Teigean squeezed his arm with age speckled fingers. He pointed his wand at the tombstones, gripping it so tightly he feared it would snap in two, and conjured several bouquets.

“That night, the entire Wizarding World celebrated Godric’s Hollow. But we were quiet, we were mournful. We mourned Lily Potter’s warming presence. We mourned her fierceness. We mourned James Potter’s kindness. We mourned his strength.”

“Thank you,” he choked out, oddly consoled that no matter how many years had passed, many still remembered his parents; that they had left a mark in the lives of those who had crossed paths with them.

She nodded. “Now, boy, you shouldn’t be out here in the cold without outside robes! You’ll freeze. Come back with me to my cottage, I’ll make you some tea,” she offered. Against his better judgment, he trailed after her, and was met with a night of warm tea, biscuits, and stories about his parents and Godric’s Hollow.

-

Harry landed on the snow just outside the Burrow and he stumbled, off-kilter. He knocked over a box of old cauldrons that Molly had left outside to dispose of, cringing as they fell to the ground with a bang. It was followed by the sound of hurried footsteps nearing the door, which opened to reveal Hermione and Ron, still dressed in last night’s clothes, their faces pinched with worry. 

“Where in Merlin’s name have you been?” Hermione demanded, letting the door clang shut behind them. The bags beneath their eyes were accentuated, the way they had looked back in the forest. Alert, sleep-deprived.

Harry took a step back, bewildered. “I, uh, wasn’t feeling well—”

Hermione scoffed. “And you had to leave for over seven hours because you  _ weren’t feeling well _ ?”

Harry frowned, casting a look at Ron, his friend was leaning against a wall, mouth set in a tight line. “I needed some time alone,” he said defensively, folding his arms across his chest.

“And you couldn’t tell us that, so we wouldn’t be so bloody worried about you?” she yelled, her voice strikingly loud against the quiet hills surrounding the Burrow. Harry didn’t recall ever hearing her cuss before. “Send a Patronus maybe? You are a wizard, aren’t you?”

“I wasn’t planning on leaving for so long. Godric, what are you fretting about?”

Ron seemed to take this as his cue to join in. “You shouldn’t have left like that.”

“Well, that’s just rich coming from you, isn’t it?” Harry snarled.

Hermione stared at him incredulously, her mouth tugged down at the corners. Harry felt a pang of guilt at the raw expression she wore, it made his anger evaporate.

Her eyes welled with old tears, “You  _ died _ ,” she sobbed. “You disappeared without saying goodbye and the next time I saw you, you were  _ dead _ , you absolute  _ arsehole _ !” she shouted with barely repressed resentment, with words Harry was sure she’d wanted to say to him for a long time but couldn’t figure out how.

He saw it coming but didn’t stop her–barely felt the pain–as Hermione punched his shoulder, taking hold of his shirt and squeezing it tightly before resting her open palm over his heart as if she needed to hear it beat. Harry didn’t have it in him to look her in the eyes, so he kept staring at her hands, which were shaking so badly he could feel it across the layers of clothing.

“Besides what you felt, you told us every detail of what happened that night in the forest,” she said, her voice losing its strength at the same time as her body did for she let her touch slid down his chest, her arm falling limp at her side. Harry raised his head to look at her, but Hermione was staring at the ground. “You said once that a part of you never came back when you did.” She crossed her hands over her stomach, the gesture so different from how she’d usually hold herself, so strange from the pride that would make Hermione look taller than any of them, but in that moment she wasn’t arguing or fighting. She was giving in to her emotions and terrified of it.

Harry had never seen Hermione Granger look so small.

“But you know…” she whispered, sounding as broken as she looked. “A part of me died with you too.” Harry couldn’t take it anymore, he closed the remaining distance between them and clutched her tight to him, feeling her small frame shake against him with silent sobs. He craned his neck as tears fell down his own eyes, looking for Ron. He stood still, eyes trained on the floor, head bowed. Hermione pulled back, scrubbing her face with her hands.

“I don’t care if you’re quiet sometimes, if you close off suddenly and stop following the conversation, if you bloody keep things from us thinking we don’t notice, even when we don’t know what they are,” Ron started, his voice was thick with unshed tears. “I don’t care if you hate us for trying to help you when you don’t want us to, I don’t  _ care _ .” His voice broke off and his fists clenched at his sides, still not looking at him, “But I want you to remember we were there too, the anger or numbness or whatever rubbish you’re feeling, we feel it too.”

“Ron—”

Ron raised his head just as the tears slipped from his eyes. “I know you might think I don’t, and that’s because most of the times I don’t let myself feel it - I can’t let myself feel it - because I’m not sure it’ll ever stop. Merlin, Harry, when I saw you in Hagrid’s arms I felt as if the world would never right itself again. Fred’s death angered me, it made me want to fight and kill every single one of those bastards with my bare hands. Yours felt like an eternity, even though it only lasted a few seconds, it still does.“

Harry stood, shell-shocked from the confession. Hermione had moved to comfort Ron, leaning against his side. Harry looked at them, his best friends in the entire world, the people that had loved, supported and protected him unconditionally. The people that had been willing to die with, and for him. The ones who shouldered his pain without asking for anything in return. Harry knew he would never be able to tell them, how much they meant to him, how he wouldn’t be able to live without them, how the possibility of pushing them away and cocking up the friendship he had with them worried him.

He could still see the wide-eyed boy who had sat down next to him in the Hogwarts Express. He could still picture the girl with bushy hair and sharp wits that found her way into their group and had become indispensable.

Harry took a tentative step towards them, then another, and didn’t stop until he was in front of them, wrapping them both with his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out. “I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye, I wouldn’t have been able to go if I had looked at the two of you. I wouldn’t have been able to bear it.”

“We wouldn’t have let you go,” Hermione said, hugging both men back.

“But I had to go, I had to—”

“We know, Harry, we know,” Ron said, smiling softly at Hermione and Harry’s hair tickling his face.

“We’ll be okay,” Hermione assured them, her voice muffled against Ron’s shoulder. “We’ll be okay.”

\-       

Once he was back inside and had changed into warm, fresh clothes (Molly’s sweater, of course), Harry greeted everyone, exchanging gifts with them. Ron had gotten Hermione matching bracelets, made with a wool that was charmed to make you feel your partner’s touch and the thrum of their magic when they were wearing it, and he’d gotten Harry a framed, moving photo—Harry suspected he somehow managed to materialize a Pensieve memory—of the moment Harry had caught his first Snitch, back in first year. Harry had bought a poster signed by all the members of the Chudley Cannons for Ron, and a rare, signed first edition of Pride and Prejudice for Hermione. Hermione had chosen a Moon Lamp for Harry that looked just like a miniature version of the real orb, a halo of gleaming alloy-silver with hollows and dips, and a silver locket for Ron that pulsed with the same beat as her heart whenever he closed his hand around it.

As Molly called Ron to help her distribute the cookies she had baked, Harry excused himself and headed upstairs, ruffling through his trunk until he found a piece of new, pristine parchment and a quill. He swiped his hands through his wool pants anxiously as he sat down, then scribbled the first thing he could think of that wouldn’t drive Draco to think him whipped.

“ _ Merry Christmas, Draco… See you soon. _

_ Yours, Harry. _ ”

His cheeks flamed in embarrassment, but he folded and tucked the parchment in the compartment perched on Pigwidgeon’s leg before he could decide against it and have it taunt him for the remainder of the holidays.

He could have sworn the owl had given him a funny, knowing look as he’d told him who to deliver the message to. The prat.

Someone knocked on the door, and Harry turned on his heel—startled—to find George leaning against the doorway, watching him expectantly.

“Err, I was just finishing up here, you can have the room,” Harry said hurriedly, already on his way to the door.

“I was hoping to speak to you, actually.” George said, straightening his shoulders. “Can I come in?”

Harry nodded, fidgeting with his wand in his pocket. “Yeah, right, of course,” he answered, too jumpy to take a seat on the bed even after George had.

Silence stretched out, and Harry was beginning to fret about whether he was expected to apologize or initiate the conversation when George sighed, tucking a lock of red hair behind his ear.

“I’m not angry at you,” he started, staring at Harry intently. “I want you to know that, I used to be…I think I used to resent you for it, but I know what happened was much bigger than just you, Harry. I don’t regret fighting by your side, I never will.”

It was Harry who couldn’t meet his eye this time.

“But it was my fault,” Harry told him. “Had I turned myself to Voldemort when I was supposed to—”

George interrupted him. “Then he would have won, and everything would have gone to utter  _ shite _ , you did what you had to do.”

Words failed him, and Harry realized he couldn’t look at him out of shame, out of guilt.

“Every day of my life I’ll have to wonder what we could have accomplished together had we had more time. What I would say if I got one last minute. Looking back at it, no amount of years with Fred would have been enough, not even a hundred. I would have always wanted more. It took me a while to stop entertaining the thought that it wasn’t real, that he would come through the door and that this was just a terrible fucking nightmare.” Harry knew what he meant, and it was then that he realized that perhaps what George was seeking from him wasn’t to lash out on him, or to confront him because he’d figured out why Harry had left unannounced the day before, but because he thought Harry would understand.

Harry did.

“I think about it and I’m so angry about everything,” George continued, huffing out a sound that sounded equally hysterical and vulnerable. “And it’s so  _ tiring _ , so bloody tiring to be so angry all the time, to feel nothing else, everything else feels dull.”

“When—when Sirius died, I was angry for a long time too, and then it settled. When I felt myself go into the pain of it, I let myself. It doesn’t get easier, George, it just gets more manageable. And then the war happened, and I feel angry again, just as hopeless as I did before,” he said, his voice hoarse and spent.

“I can’t conjure a Patronus anymore,” George said after a long moment, his voice pitched low. He pulled his wand out of his pocket and rolled it between his fingers, and Harry thought of the DA, of George casting a Patronus with eased practice and grinning at him with Fred by his side,  _ whole _ . “I wanted to send one to—to him, to see where it would go. Would it go up? Would it vanish? I wanted to send him a message, and I realized I couldn’t, no matter what I thought of.” Harry moved to sit next to him, keeping a comfortable distance between them.

“I haven’t tried to,” he confessed. “But I could, for you, if you’d like.”

George regarded him with a shocked expression, his eyes were red and bloodshot, “I couldn’t possibly ask of you—”

“You can. I want to,” Harry promised him, taking out his wand, he looked at George, who looked just as scared as Harry felt. “Ready?” he required, fingers trembling.

“No,” George whispered. “But go ahead.”

Harry shut his eyes and thought of the memory the Thestral had shown him of his parents, he thought of the first time he’d produced one successfully, of the happiness he’d felt when Sirius had told him they would move in together, of Ron and Hermione, alive and breathing. “Expecto Patronum.” He bellowed, something between a demand and a prayer.

He held his breath and then seconds felt like millennia when a silver light burst out from the tip of his wand, blinding and dazzling, it danced on the air before taking the shape of Stag. Fierce and ethereal, greeting him like an old friend.

George seemed frozen on the spot, his mouth hung open as he stared at it.

Harry nudged him, a soft smile on his face, “Go on, then,”

George seemed to ponder for a second, seizing the Stag’s form with a look of devastation and disbelief. “Fred,” he mumbled, his voice quavering. “It’s okay,” he cried, “You go, Fred, I’ll be okay, you go.” He finished, fisting his hands on his lap. 

He turned to Harry, who grasped his shoulder and squeezed lightly. “Deliver this message to Fred Weasley.” Harry told his Patronus, which eyed him curiously, before galloping in a spiral motion towards the window and going through it, headed for the stars.

Their eyes followed it until it disappeared into the clouds, leaving a trail of shiny specks of light, almost to ensure them they hadn’t imagined it. Harry let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Do you think there’s an afterlife?” George asked, still transfixed on the spot where the stag had been, “Do you think he’s happy?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said honestly, his eyes heavy, the exhaustion of the day catching up to him, his head aching. “But if there is, my dad was surely the first one waiting for him, for being the one—along with you—to figure out the Marauders Map. They’re wreaking havoc over there.”

For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Harry saw George Weasley smile, it was so small he could have missed it had he blinked at the wrong time, but it was there, and it was something.

“Thank you, Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For every Kudos & Comment you give to a fic you've enjoyed, a writer's day brightens. So do keep that in mind, lots of love!


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeeeeeeeeello. It's been a while, hasn't it? Well, I've been caught up with work and writer's block, and I needed this chapter to be absolutely perfect. So, quality over quantity? Thank you so so so much for all the kind comments you've been leaving, they're so encouraging and they keep me going. Comments and Kudos are my salary, after all. Last chapter I told you to grab tissues, this chapter... you'll need a toothbrush. 
> 
> Thank you to madeoficeandfire and Aspera, also madeoficeandfire / eyelashesonentropy on tumblr for their wonderful work. I am very lucky to have you both! and I sincerely apologize to both of you for making you endure all my mistakes and redundant lines. Where would I be without you.

Draco had just finished exchanging gifts with his mother and Pansy when Trixie, one of the remaining House Elves of Malfoy Manor, materialized beside him with a soft  _ crack _ .

“Merlin!” Pansy shrieked, then spelling clean the wet spot on her skirt where her tea had spilled. “I never did get used to that.” 

Draco snorted and turned his attention to Trixie, who was holding folded parchment between long, spindly fingers. She bowed her head when he regarded her and held up her hand.

“Master Draco! You has received an Owl, sir,” she explained, her high-pitched voice a sharp contrast against the stillness of the soaring ceilings and empty corridors of the Manor.

Draco took the parchment with a grateful nod. “Very well, Trixie. Thank you.”

She bowed her head once more before disappearing.

Draco rolled the parchment between his fingers, frowning, it didn’t seem to be from Greg, he always signed his letters with  _ GG _ on the outside and Draco had Floo’d him the day before to wish him a Happy Christmas.

“Who is it from, then?” His mother asked, she sat on the chaise longue opposite of him in a set of indigo blue robes, her curled blonde hair flowing over her shoulders.

The War and the loss of her husband had taken their toll on her, her pain evident by the way her  eyes would constantly shift to the empty seat that his father had once occupied in the Dining Room . If there was one thing he admired about his mother, however, was her unwavering strength, her poise and the elegance of her stance. It was from her that Draco had learned a Slytherin could be just as courageous as any other person, if someone they loved was on the line.

He unfolded it and felt his breath catch as he read the words scribbled in atrocious handwriting, a smile tugging at his lips.

_ “Merry Christmas, Draco… See you soon. _

_ Yours, Harry.” _

Pansy cleared her throat and Draco looked up, his cheeks colouring when he noticed he’d been smiling at a piece of parchment like a Hufflepuff for the last minute. One of Pansy’s eyebrows tugged up in a silent “ _ Well? _ ” gesture.

“It’s from Blaise, he sends his regards,” Draco announced, tucking the letter in one of his pockets, making a mental note to send one back as soon as he had the chance.

“Is that so?” Pansy drawled, a tad too pleasantly for Draco’s liking. “How  _ lovely _ of him,” she added, smiling at him in a way that assured him he was fooling absolutely no one.

Draco ought to get himself better friends.

“Ah, I see how it is,” His mother cut in. “You’ve met someone,”

To resist the urge to bang his head against the nearest surface, he opted for wishing glaring was enough to bring Pansy to an early grave. “Not quite,” he said tightly.

“It’s unlike you to be so secretive about your courtships, Draco. You usually enjoy gloating.” Narcissa commented, grabbing a ginger biscuit from the tray before her.

“ _ Usually _ —?”  

“That’s quite enough, Pansy,” Draco bit out.

Whenever his fight-or-flight response was activated, Draco would usually learn towards the latter, but his mother was right there, and he’d just had an inner monologue about the courage she’d taught him, so he wouldn’t flee, not this time.

Draco looked his mother in the eye, he motioned with his hand vaguely. “I might’ve… possibly…” he started, sucking in a breath. “I trust you remember I’ve been roomed with Potter—”

Narcissa’s biscuit crumpled between her fingers, her eyes widened in recognition. “You have courted… Harry Potter?”

Or perhaps he would, for old times sake.

“ _ Courted _ —?” It took a great deal of self-control not to start sputtering. “No, I haven’t courted Harry sodding Potter, Mother. I’ve simply befriended the man. An acquaintance, a  _ truce _ , if you will, not a  _ courtship _ .”

“ _ Quel dommage _ ,” Pansy sighed, holding her chest dramatically.

“Your French is appalling,” Draco said, scrunching his nose. “Just how many times must you subject me to your awful pronunciation?”

Pansy’s eyes twinkled with amusement, much like a little child that had just gotten their sibling into trouble. “Oh, shove it.”

“Well,” his mother intercepted, throwing them a disapproving look at their language. “I think that’s rather lovely, Draco. Your eleven-year-old self would be quite proud.” Draco blinked in surprise. He had expected the full dramatics, outrage, threats beneath her breath that his mother thought Pansy couldn’t hear, disappointed tears, the works.

“You aren’t upset, then?”

Narcissa shook her head. “The boy seems a decent sort, is all. It’s healthy to let bygones be bygones, dear.”

“Bygones? Mother. We joined a group that worshipped the maniac that brutally murdered his parents, godfather, favourite teacher—”

His mother waved a hand dismissively. “Technicalities.”

Draco relaxed back on his armchair, the tenseness in his shoulders dissipated. “I expected you to be far more scandalized, clutching your pearls and all that.”

“That boy kept both of us from rotting in Azkaban,” Narcissa said, lifting her cup to her mouth. “Plus, it’d be good for you to have a good relationship with him,” she continued with a light shrug, taking a moderate sip of her Earl Grey.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course, I had forgotten every relevant person in my life is a Slytherin.”

“Not everyone, it seems,” Pansy retorted, smirking at him behind the steam of her tea. Draco would have hexed her, if it weren’t for the fact that she had a point, perhaps far more than she realized.

He knew Pansy noticed that he and Harry had grown closer in the past few weeks, but he’d kept her in the dark at the best of his abilities. Draco refused to allow himself to hope that Harry saw him the way Draco saw him. Granted, there had been times where he hadn’t known what to make of Harry’s behaviour. Harry would bring him fresh sandwiches from the kitchens whenever Draco skipped dinner in the Great Hall, either exhausted or studying. He’d say “Morning, Draco,” in that sleep-softened, raspy voice of his and a beaming smile that made heat spread through Draco’s chest. Some days, Draco would catch Harry staring at him during Double Potions whenever Harry thought he wasn’t looking, he’d look up from chopping ingredients to find Harry  _ looking _ at him, a warm emotion flickering on his eyes that Draco couldn’t quite decipher. “Circe, love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?” he sneered.

It was dangerous territory, Draco knew that if he let himself dwell on it too much it would bloom, full force, until it suffocated him and clouded his judgment.

\-    

Harry ended up paying Andromeda and Teddy a visit on Boxing Day.

Andromeda had set the wards to let him in, he stepped through, dusting the powder off his trousers.

“Harry, dear! Do come in,” Andromeda said, she shut the book on her lap and placed it on the couch, getting to her feet.

“Merry Christmas,” Harry strode up to her and kissed her cheek. “You look lovely,” he said, Andromeda gave him a small smile and wacked him in the arm softly.

“Merry Christmas, Harry.” He pulled out both shrunken packages from his pocket and reversed the charm, handing Andromeda her and Teddy’s gifts. “It’s not much, but I do hope you both like it,” he told her, scratching the back of his neck.

She looked delighted, and Harry mentally patted himself on the back. He’d only met her a handful of times, and wasn’t sure what ground they stood on. He had feared she wouldn’t appreciate him buying her a present. “This is so sweet of you, dear, thank you,” Andromeda patted his cheek, and Harry couldn’t help but notice just how similar her and Narcissa Malfoy looked. It made him think of Draco, and how he missed the git. “I’m afraid I can only offer you a warm meal and pudding, though.”

Harry beamed at her. “Sounds brilliant, honestly—” he was interrupted as a loud shrill rang through the room, making him flinch.

“Ah, that’d be Teddy, he’s just woken up from his afternoon nap. Let me go fetch him.”

“If you don’t mind, I could go get him instead?” Harry asked hopefully. The smile on Andromeda’s face widened.

“Sure, I trust you know where his nursery is?” Harry nodded. “I’ll go start the kettle, then.”

Harry took a moment to orient himself once he was in the hallway, then remembered Teddy’s room was the second to the left.

He opened the door and turned on the lights, Teddy was in his cot, his eyes red and his cheeks wet with tears, and looking far too cranky and fussy for a less-than-one-year-old in Harry’s opinion. His wailing ceased to whimpering as soon as he spotted Harry, and he made grabby motions at him, expecting to be held.

“Hullo, little lad,” Harry cooed, picking him up by the armpits, he placed Teddy on his forearm and secured his other hand behind the baby’s back the way Molly had taught him, chuckling at the bright pink fuzz of hair on his head.

“He’s sporting a new hair colour every week, still can’t quite control it, bless him,” Harry jumped, he turned around to see Andromeda leaning against the doorframe.

He grinned, pinching one of Teddy’s chubby cheeks. “Never too early to rebel, is it?” he asked. Harry followed Andromeda to the living room, sitting on the large couch with Teddy propped on his lap. “Is he causing too much trouble?” he asked.

She levitated a steaming cup to the coffee table near him. “Teddy? Not at all, he sleeps through the nights, from seven thirty pm until six am, and he isn’t much of a crier, either.”

Teddy had taken Harry’s glasses hostage by now, trying to chew on the temples.

Andromeda Accio’ed the glasses with her wand. “He’s teething as well, so he chews on everything,” She explained before levitating the glasses back to him so he could slip them back on.

Harry nuzzled Teddy’s hair with his cheek, making him giggle. “He’s gotten so big,”

Andromeda’s smile softened, her eyes flashed with a sadness Harry understood too well. “I wish she was here to see it,” she said, her voice wavering.

Harry swallowed, the corners of his mouth twitching as Teddy wrapped his tiny fist over his thumb. “Yeah, me too.”

She pulled out a handkerchief from the pocket of her robes, gently wiping the corners of her eyes. Silence stretched out between them, interrupted by the occasional gurgle or giggle from Teddy as he pulled on Harry’s curls.

Andromeda cleared her throat. “I appreciate the gold you’ve been sending,” she said. “You mustn’t. Teddy and I are doing well, his parents had savings and so do I,”

Harry averted his eyes from her, in the months he hadn’t visited, he’d made sure to deposit gold in her vault. He couldn’t bear the thought of Andromeda struggling to make ends meet and wanted to make sure she and Teddy were as comfortable as possible. It was the least he could do. “I know I mustn’t. Still, I want to. I’m his godfather,”

“That you are,” she affirmed, letting affection colour her tone as she vanished their forgotten, cold tea. She stood up and straightened her robes with a firm hand. “Well, then, the food should be ready by now. Shall we?”

Harry stood and placed Teddy on his hip. “Lead the way.”

–

The first thing Harry wanted to do as soon as he set foot inside the castle was run straight to the dorms and find Draco, talk to him,  _ see _ him. He had no clue what he’d say, he just knew he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since Draco had Owl’ed him back, words scribbled in neat, fluent handwriting.

“ _ Merry Christmas, you big oaf. You were on my mind yesterday, I saw one of the peacocks at the Manor run face first into a tree. Reminded me of you. _

_ Ps. Your handwriting is dreadful. _

_ Yours, DM.” _

Draco had probably been aiming for an insult, for the pure pleasure of pissing Harry off. But Harry had been too busy trying to get his heart to stop fluttering in his chest as he reread the words “ _ You were on my mind _ ,” again and again, smiling like a first year with a crush, to even get offended.

Merlin, he  _ missed _ Draco. He missed catching glimpses of him in the mornings before he’d changed into his uniform, when he was still clad in his silk pyjamas, hair tousled and falling on his eyes, looking lenient and  _ kissable _ and everything Harry had ever wanted.

He missed hearing Draco’s quill as it glided through his parchment when he wrote, the sound lulling him to sleep, how he’d bite his bottom lip in concentration and run a hand through his hair.

He missed talking to him, sometimes too busy staring at his impossible pale blue eyes and the light lashes that framed them to hear what Draco was saying.

Much to his disappointment, Harry couldn’t go to their room until after dinner. Dean had suggested they all go to Hogsmeade for a pint, and he’d spent the evening there, unable to get out of it without causing them to worry. When he did open the door to their dorm with sweaty hands and his heart beating hard in his chest, he found it to be empty except for Malfoy’s trunk, nestled against his bed.

Harry frowned, casting a  _ Tempus _ , it was past eleven o’clock.

He busied himself by taking a long, hot shower and manually unpacking his trunk. When the clock hit half past twelve, way past their curfew, and Draco still hadn’t showed up, Harry began to panic.

He paced around their room before slipping on a hoodie and checking the Common Room for any signs of him. He found it empty save for Seamus, who had drunkenly fallen asleep on the sofa near the fireplace and was snoring lightly. Harry nestled a pillow beneath Seamus’ head and tucked him with a sewn woollen blanket draped across the sofa. Worry settled in his chest like a parasite, unwavering and urgent.

He couldn’t fall asleep until he knew Draco was alright. He knew Draco should be safe if he was within the walls of the castle. No one would dare harm him here, not with Headmistress watching, but he wondered if Draco had gotten to the castle at all.

Harry knew their current life at Hogwarts was a lot like living in limbo, a pause, a juncture of time where the outside world could not reach them. He was aware they’d have to face a harsh reality when they left, no longer sheltered by the Castle’s sentient, protective magic, and that said reality would not be kind to Draco Malfoy.

It was too soon, far too soon. Time hadn’t erased all wounds, and people were angry, itching with the urge to avenge their dead; to find someone to blame and inflict the pain on them that the loss of their loved ones had burdened them with. Spilled blood would only be satisfied with more blood, after all.

Draco was the last of the Marked that was free, and although he hadn’t played a role as cruel as the others, he still bore the Mark on his arm. He would pay the price for it every day. Harry couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been attacked on his way here. If his body laid somewhere he wouldn’t be found, bent at unnatural angles, lost to the darkness.

Amidst his concern, another thought occurred to him, that perhaps the reason Draco was not here was because he had decided to spend the night with someone else.

The feeling that struck him at the implication was warm and bright and fierce and it settled in the pit of his stomach. Unmistakable jealousy. It made him feel like a self-righteous arsehole, Draco did not owe him a  _ thing _ , and here Harry was, losing sleep and shaking with anger at the thought of someone else touching him and marking his body in a way Harry could only dream to.

Wishing he could blame it on masochism, Harry knew he would not rest until his suspicions were confirmed or denied. It was all his fault, really, he’d deluded himself into thinking Draco might feel the same way he did and if the harsh truth was what he needed to be able to move on, to stop this from hurting, then that’s what would have to happen.

His choice was made.

With shaky fingers, he reached for a piece of parchment at the bottom of his trunk, dusting away the fine layer of dust that had collected due to lack of use. He opened it, tapping it with his wand and reciting:

_ “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” _

The blank space bloomed with colour and ink, mapping the castle in fine detail. He scanned all the towers, searching for Draco’s name, and he sighed in relief when he noticed Draco did not appear to be in anyone else’s dorms.

His moment of peace was broken when he spotted him, perched on top of the Astronomy Tower. Eyes widening and heart thudding painfully in his chest, Harry stuffed the Map in his pocket and slipped on his shoes, he fetched the Cloak from beneath his mattress, wrapped himself with it, cast a Silencing Charm around himself and ran.

He remembered the last time Draco had stood in that tower, his extended arm shivering as he pointed his wand at Dumbledore, vacillating in its resolve with each second that passed. He’d been so scared, so hopeless.

His sneakers pounded against the floor, his legs sore and his lungs wheezing with extortion, he was so tired, but he didn’t stop running, didn’t dare to take a break, for just one second was enough to be too late and Harry would never forgive himself for it.

It must have been minutes, but it dragged on for an eternity.

He climbed up the stairs two steps at a time once he entered the tower and rounded the corner, dread clawing at him.

Draco Malfoy was leaning against the window still, his head tipped back as he stared at the sky. Harry could only see his profile, and he knew the running wasn’t the only thing preventing him from breathing.

Draco. Solid and beautiful and  _ safe _ .

He breathed out in relief and slipped the cloak off, undoing the charm. “Draco,” he called out.

Harry saw the moment Draco’s body tensed and turned towards the sound, his wand was out before he’d even found the source of it, eyes wide and feral.

Harry held up his hands. “It’s me! Draco. It’s me,” he blurted, his words rushing through him like a torrent during a thunderstorm.

Draco only gripped his wand tighter, his expression taught with fear. Harry was tempted to reach for his own wand, tucked away in his trousers, but he opted against it. “Draco, it’s me, Harry,” he repeated, his voice unsteady.

Hearing Harry’s name seemed to snap him out of it, Draco’s eyes came back to focus, and they zeroed on him, the emotions flickering on them unreadable from where Harry stood.

Harry took a tentative step forward as Draco seemed to lower his wand. “Harry?” he said in disbelief. “How the fuck did you find me?” he demanded.

Harry grimaced. “Funny story, that one,” he said.

Draco closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose like he needed to collect himself before he heard what Harry had to say. He looked back at Harry. “Do share it.”

“There’s—I have this map,” Harry pulled it out of his pocket, unfolding it as he walked up beside Draco, who was looking at it with confused scepticism. “It was given to me by Fred and George, created by my dad, my godfather Sirius Black, Professor Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew when they attended Hogwarts. It shows every corner of this school, and where everyone is.”

Draco looked back and forth between the Map and Harry for several seconds. “Bull _ shit _ ,” he finally said.

Harry tapped his wand to the parchment and recited the incarnation.

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco whispered, he sounded on the verge of hysteria, gesturing wildly with his hands. “You just, I can’t  _ believe _ this—Actually, no I perfectly can, this is exactly the type of thing that would happen to you. The universe just… throws these things in your hands.”

Harry chuckled as Draco took the Map from him and began examining it from all angles, Harry bit his lip. “It also throws a lot of shit on my plate, so I think it’s balanced.”

Draco hummed in agreement. “Quite right,” he folded the map again. “I don’t quite appreciate being followed, brilliant as this may be,” he said.

A rush of hot guilt filled Harry. “Fuck, yeah, I know. It’s just—you hadn’t come, and it was getting late—”

His cheeks flushed at the small smirk on Draco’s face, mixed with an open endearment that Harry must have misinterpreted. “You were worried about me? I’m flattered, really,” Draco said, he spun on his heel and faced the window, leaning his elbows against the rock still.

Harry joined him, their shoulders brushed against each other, sending a thrill through him. “What were you up to, then?” he asked.  

Draco shrugged. “Thinking,”

Harry turned to him. “Just thinking?”

Draco’s smile widened, soft around the edges. “And looking at the stars, I suppose.”

Harry stared at the sky above them, what had been painted with orange, pink and red hues the last time he’d gazed upon it on his way back from Hogsmeade was now midnight velvet, adorned with thousands of bright specks. “I don’t know shite about stars, I remember little of it,” Harry admitted as he pulled out his wand and cast a warming charm around them when he noticed Draco shivering as the frigid air slipped through the fabric of his cloak.  

Draco huffed, clearly offended. “Here, I’ll teach you.” Draco leaned into Harry, pointing at the sky to his left. Harry’s breath hitched at their new-found proximity, he could  _ smell _ Draco like this, could feel Draco’s hair tickling his cheek. Still, he forced himself to look up and squint in the general direction of Draco’s finger. “See that group of stars that looks like a dragon curling its body?” Draco murmured.

Harry tilted his head. “Err, no, I don’t think so?”

Draco tutted, muttering something along the lines of “ _ imbecile _ ,” and “ _ we’re lucky we’re not all dead _ ,” as he pulled out his wand and pointed it at the sky, swishing it in a spiral motion and bellowing: “ _ Constellatio Maxima _ !”

Suddenly, it appeared the heavenly bodies had either plummeted until they hovered five meters above them, or his eyes had zoomed beyond anything possible, because he could make them out clearly. There were silver threads that connected certain stars with each other, forming patterns of light and creating constellations, and a faint purple colour seemed to float near them, showing how each constellation mimicked what it had been named after.  

Harry was so blown away he couldn’t bring himself to speak, he looked over to Draco, surrounded by stars, and he seemed to just  _ fit _ there, like he belonged with them.

Draco glowed among them, everlasting and ethereal.

“Mother taught me this spell when I was in fourth year,” Draco said, and Merlin, it felt like they were both  _ floating _ . “It’s an original of House Black, Parents-to-Be would come here and pick a name for their child. It’s how she chose Draco.”

Harry turned his attention from Draco’s face when he heard a loud exhale near them, and what sounded like winds flopping in the air. There, a short distance from them, rested a Dragon that looked more luminescent than it did solid, with golden and silvery scales and deep-set violet eyes. It was nestled on top of a group of stars that mirrored his form, its prodigious, intimidating wings tucked around it like a protective aura.

“Is that—”

“The Draco constellation, yes,” Draco said, voice dripping with marvel and nostalgia. The dragon seemed to notice them then, and it roared, greeting Draco like an old friend.

“I used to look at it last year,” Draco started, eyes on the stars the dragon rested on. “I used to think if I died, at least that spot in the sky would remain where it was, never settling on the horizon, here long before we were and long after we’re gone.”

Harry seemed to have forgotten how to breathe, or how to blink, his senses were so overwhelmed with Draco and Draco and  _ Draco  _ that he didn’t trust himself to speak, not when the iridescent lights reflected on him like this.

Draco had shared a valuable part of himself with Harry, his safe place, Harry realized. He’d bared himself to him.

He could feel his magic pulsing through his veins, erratic and serene all at once. Draco was staring ahead, watching as the Dragon flapped its wings and soared through the unending darkness, smiling as a fluorescent man Harry assumed was Hercules mounted its back and they flew, protecting the sky together, leaving trails of stardust in their wake.

Draco turned to him, brows furrowing as he noticed him staring. “What?” he asked softly, gaze unsure and wondering.

Harry swallowed, his mouth dry. “You’re not as forgettable as you think, Draco Malfoy,” he said, green eyes boring into grey, and for once he did not care that his feelings were written all over his face, open and vulnerable for Draco to see.

Draco seemed fixed on the spot, eyes wide, and Harry realised he had just rendered him speechless for the first time.

_ This is a dream _ , Harry thought,  _ it must be _ .

Harry had never been good with words, never learned how to express what he felt the way others wanted him to. Maybe he would never know how to tell Draco what this meant to him, he’d always poured his feelings into his actions, after all. He’d always been reckless, taking one small sliver of hope and going with it. The look of fear and open want on Draco’s face was all the courage Harry needed.

He slid his hand up Draco’s arm, cradling his cheek, caressing his cheekbone with his thumb.

This seemed to unfreeze Draco, he leaned into the touch. “I’m not?” he breathed, his eyes falling on Harry’s lips.

“No, you’re not,” Harry told him, and then he kissed him.

Draco’s breath slipped between his lips and Harry’s caught it, pressing it back, locking their lips in a kiss that was far too inexperienced, long overdue and terrifying, all at once.

Draco pulled back, staring at Harry like he was expecting it this whole moment to fall apart any second. He must have found the answer to his silent question, though, because a moment later he hauled Harry by the neck and kissed him again, letting out a choked whine.

His lips were so soft he could have gotten lost in the feeling of them alone. He could feel their magic intertwining, his skin electric where Draco touched it.

It was  _ brilliant _ .

As Harry stood there, coaxing Draco’s mouth open with his own, feeling his skin, breathing his scent, he wondered if this was what they had been leading up to all long, even if they hadn’t known it back then. He wondered if every bitter memory would be replaced with secret moments like these. If every insult would rebound as a kiss, if every blow would be recompensed with a caress. He hoped, as Draco tangled his hands in his hair, a soft moan leaving his lips, that they had enough rivalry and years of taunts and hatred behind them to last them a lifetime of kisses.

He licked Draco’s lip, felt his mouth part. He slipped his tongue into Draco’s mouth, moaning low in his throat as their tongues touched.  His left hand slipped to Draco’s waist and he tugged him closer so that their bodies were flushed against each other.

Draco leaned his head back, panting. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Boy Wonder,” he said, a radiant smile on his lips.

Harry groaned as heat pooled low in his abdomen. “I like when you call me that,” he whispered against Draco’s lips, tightening his hold on his face.

Draco gave a breathy laugh, his grey eyes darkened by his dilated pupils, his lips red and swollen. “Finally admitting you like the praise?”

Harry caught Draco’s plush bottom lip between his teeth and pulled, “Only when it comes from you.”

—

Draco stroked the hair on Harry’s nape as Harry placed light kisses all over his face, on his nose, his cheeks, his eyelids. He could not believe what was happening, it all felt so surreal, like a cruel dream he would soon wake up from. But Harry felt so solid against his fingertips, he could feel the thrum of their magic as they touched, could smell the scent of Harry’s aftershave, could hear his own heart thundering so hard in his chest he thought it might echo around them.

He knew that there was no going back from this. Whatever happened next, this juncture of time would be irreversible for them. He’d never been one to dwell in stars and the power of their magic, but somehow, they had aligned for him on this night. Bright and dazzling against the dusky sky, gifting him with a new memory to adhere to this tower.

Harry’s lips had tasted like forgiveness. His kiss had tasted like the redemption Draco didn’t deem himself worthy of. It was tender and yet strong, tentative yet certain.

Still, they stood here, under these stars, where their history and hatred and the War could not touch them.  

A bundle of light circled around them, startling them both. It bounced and wagged its tail, barking happily before it disappeared behind a luminous, striking star.

“What was that?” Harry asked, breathless.

“Sirius,” Draco said. “The brightest star in the sky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask and you shall receive!


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Tips hat* Hello everyone! I'm not dead. I've been going through the worst! writer's block in the history of mankind (if we forget GRRM) so please don't come at me with pitchforks! I'll do my best to upload next chapter sooner! 
> 
> As always, thank you to madeoficeandfire and Aspera, also madeoficeandfire / eyelashesonentropy on tumblr for their work on this fic. You two are the best betas I could ask for.

Harry stepped back from Draco, his hand still cupping Draco’s jaw and neck, the skin there light as a drifting blossom. “We should go back,” he said.

Draco nodded, and with a soft incantation he reversed the charm, the stars around them flew higher and higher until they were distant shimmering spots in the night’s sky, or perhaps he and Draco sunk lower until their feet touched on the Astronomy Tower.

“We’re going to get caught, you realize,” Draco told him as he straightened his disheveled clothes. “They’ll give us shite for this,”

Harry’s face split into a knowing grin. “Ah, no we’re not.”

Draco raised a brow. “We’re not?”

Harry walked towards the stairs of the tower and picked a large piece of brown fabric from the steps, dusting it with his hand. He walked closer to Draco and held it up. “I have a cloak,”

Draco threw him an unimpressed look. “Congratulations. What’s that got to do with us not getting our arses handed to us by Filch?”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Only you can still be an arse even after you had your tongue down my throat two minutes ago.”

Draco flushed beet red, and he was about to scold him for being  _ crass  _ and _ classless _ , when Harry wrapped the cloak around his shoulders and—promptly disappeared, save for his head.

Draco stared with a curious gaze. “You—” he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply to collect himself. “You have an  _ Invisibility Cloak. _ ”

Harry had the decency to look sheepish. “I promise this is the last surprise.”

“Knowing you? Not bloody likely,” Draco huffed as Harry wrapped the cloak around both of them and their bodies faded into thin air.

“It was my dad’s,” Harry explained as they walked, careful to not let the cloak slip. “Dumbledore gave it to me for Christmas during first year.”

Draco’s lip curled with a resentful scowl. “ _ Of course _ he did.”

In the confined space, every move made their legs brush and their shoulders bump against each other, it sent a spark of heat through Draco that soothed the harsh bite of the icy wind, and he was glad Harry was staring ahead instead of looking at him.  

They managed to reach their dorm unseen and Harry slipped off the cloak, throwing it on his bed and turning to face Draco, his longing laid out for Draco to see and his posture relaxed.  

He’d grown used to Harry being defensive and hyper-aware around him over the years. Draco had observed closely as he’d thrown venomous words at him, making note of which would provoke Harry further, which would crack his honourable shell and bring out his fury. Harry’s stance had always been tense and wary in Draco’s presence, they’d circled around each other, looking for an opening, an upper hand to outdo the other.

Not anymore.

_ This _ Harry, the one that stood before him, was vulnerable and human and touchable and everything Draco had convinced himself he wasn’t. Draco realized that perhaps, this was what he’d wanted all along, for Harry Potter to let his guard down in front of him, for him to pull Draco in and transform their rivalry to something much more dangerous.

He could not determine the exact moment the nature of their relationship had shifted, the moment they’d become the conduit of each other’s strength instead of the vessel of each other’s anger.

Draco wondered if their fate had always meant to lead them here, or if it had been extraordinarily good luck. He was not a man held down by faith, not after everything, but he had always been sensitive to magical signatures, and the way they reacted with one another. Harry’s magic was erratic, powerful and warm, just like he was. Draco’s own was subtler, but much more precise and devious, cooling. They complimented one another when they intertwined, and despite everything that had transpired between them, Draco noticed their magical cores did not share the animosity that they once had.

Harry cleared his throat, his hands clenching at his sides, his bravado repressed by an unusual, delightful shyness. “Tonight was—” his gaze flickered past Draco, an alertness noticeable in his eyes despite his exhaustion, behind the glasses that sat askew on his nose, the lenses smudged around the edges. “It was good,  _ more _ than good, actually—I’m pants at this part.”

Draco breathed out, relieved to not be the only one smitten with the unreality of their situation. “I suppose it was acceptable.”

Harry let out a laugh, stepping closer. “You’re such a prick,” he said.

Draco grinned. “Prat,” he shot back.

Another step. “Wanker,” Harry said.

This time, Draco stepped forward as well. “Ponce.”

Harry took a decisive step, and Draco was taken by surprise from their sudden proximity. “Maybe a little bit,” he breathed out, his hand reaching out to tuck a strand of Draco’s hair behind his ear, his eyes searching Draco’s face.

Draco felt himself lean into the touch. “This whole thing would be rather humiliating if you weren’t, wouldn’t it?”  

Harry leaned in, planting three deep, short kisses on Draco’s lips. “Thank Merlin for small mercies, then.”

Draco rolled his eyes, shoving at Harry’s chest half-heartedly. “S _ leep _ .”

Harry pulled back, amusement twinkling in his eyes. He raised a dark, bushy brow.

It took Draco a second.

“In your own bed,  _ alone _ , you barbarian,” he hissed.

Harry laughed, picking up his pyjamas from where they laid scrunched up on his bed and heading towards the bathroom.

“Goodnight, Draco,” he said, hovering at the door.

Draco flapped a hand behind him as he opened his trunk and rummaged through it, angling his face away from Harry’s to hide his flush. “Goodnight,”

\---

Draco had barely plopped down next to Pansy during Charms before she’d raised a knowing brow at him.  

“Spill it,” she demanded, folding her arms on her chest.

Draco tried for nonchalance, busying himself with placing all his utensils before him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Pansy tapped her fingers against her arm impatiently. “You missed breakfast,” she pointed out.

He sighed, rubbing the pads of his fingers against his temples. “It’s not the first time.”

She did not seem convinced. “But it is the first time this year, and I know you’re not busy plotting anyone’s demise, so  _ spill it _ .”

Draco wasn’t sure if it had been long enough to start making jokes about sixth year. “I  _ slept in _ , you cow,” he lied; she needn’t know he had spent the better part of his morning in the abandoned Charms classroom to avoid facing Potter.

Pansy cast a swift Muffliato around them, effectively casting out their surroundings, and the playful look on her face darkened. “Promise me, Draco Malfoy. Promise me that if someone has hurt you, you will not lie to me about it, pride be damned.”

Draco felt himself smile. “No one has hurt me, Pans,” he said. “I promise.”

She exhaled deeply, searching his face for any sign of dishonesty. “All right,” Pansy said as she poked him in the shoulder with a manicured finger. “But I will find out what’s happened, you realize.”

He ached to tell her but Draco knew no good would come out of it. He wasn’t sure where he and Potter stood yet. For all he knew, Potter had just been in a snogging mood, or he’d been overwhelmed by the sight of the stars and constellations laid out before him close enough to reach. What if he’d only wanted to kiss a bloke and Draco had simply been in the right place at the right time?

Or worse, what if it had been an act of pity? The mere thought made him feel sick.

He couldn’t brush it off as casual; Pansy could see right through him. She knew it could never be “just” anything for Draco when it came to Harry Potter. She’d pin him with a worried glance, ask him to be careful lest he gets hurt. She’d warn him, tell him not to get his hopes up.

All things Draco knew, and none that he could bear to hear.

Before Draco could answer, Pansy’s sharp, calculating gaze shifted somewhere over his shoulder, and her entire demeanour changed. “He could at  _ least _ make an attempt at subtlety,” she said, a smirk fledged her on her features.

Draco did not need to look behind him to know who she was talking about. “Who?”

“Well, Potter, of course, do keep up, darling.” She cocked her head to the side, her smirk widening. “Who’s now pretending to have spaced out staring at the empty space behind us to pretend I didn’t catch him looking.”

Draco knew a lost cause with Pansy when he saw it. “You’re insufferable.”

“ _ I’m _ not the one who keeps glancing your way hoping you’ll look back.” She whistled lowly. “Merlin, he’s arse over  _ tit _ for you. Five galleons Granger will notice it soon,”

Draco suppressed a shudder. He couldn’t bring himself to wonder what she’d think if she did. “There’s nothing to  _ notice _ , Pans,” he insisted.

Pansy Parkinson could see in the dark with a blindfold on, a Slytherin through and through. “Something happened,” she said, matter-of-factly, her eyes widening. “He’s not looking at you when he thinks you’re not looking like he would before. He’s staring hoping you’ll stare back. Something’s  _ changed _ .”

Draco stared at her, astonished. “How in Merlin’s left tit did you do that?”

She shrugged, pulling out her ink as professor Flitwick walked into the classroom. “You’re not the only one who likes to watch.” Draco couldn’t bring himself to resent her ferocious, uncompromising cleverness. It was one of the many things he loved about her, even when he fell victim to it. “Plus, you’re not the only one who keeps secrets, darling,” she said, then brought a finger to her lips and shushed him, gesturing to Flitwick, who was swishing his wand and writing down words on the board.

Draco did not listen to a single word the professor said, aware of the eyes watching him, and Pansy’s words echoing through his mind.

\---

Hermione huffed and crossed her arms, her legs folded beneath her on the cushion. “We could sit by the lake, you know. When’s the last time any of us got fresh air?”

Ron’s left hand laid on her knee, stroking absent-mindedly as he eyed the paper perched on his lap with determined resentment. “In January? In  _ Scotland _ ? Not bloody likely.” Ron used his other hand to retrieve his wand from his satchel, spelling the window open. “There you go, fresh air,”

Harry stifled a laugh, sighing as the rustling coolness seeped in and enveloped him. It was a refreshing contrast to the still, dry warmth that their fireplace emitted.

Hermione’s own hand came to rest on top of Ron’s, the corners of her mouth lifting as Ron turned the palm of his up and linked their fingers. “That  _ is _ better, thank you.”

Harry found himself watching them instead of looking away. The open affection in their eyes as they stared at each other and the comfortable intimacy caught him off guard.

He averted his eyes when Ron leaned in and pressed a kiss to Hermione’s forehead, suddenly gripped by with a sense of yearning. Harry wondered if he would ever be able to share himself with Draco that way, broad and open for the world to see, without a care of who might be watching, of what they might  _ think _ . Would Ron and Hermione understand? Should he ever tell them? Or would they turn against him as well?

Then again, he’d woken up this morning to find Draco’s bed empty, and when he’d gone down for breakfast, Draco hadn’t been there either. He had not even spared Harry a look during Charms. It was quite clear he was giving Harry a wide berth.

It frustrated him beyond words. There had been no hesitation in the way Draco had leaned his cheek into Harry’s stroking palm, how he’d look at Harry like he’d hung the bloody moon. He’d returned the kiss with such fierceness and  _ want _ , his fingers mapping every inch and crevice of skin he could reach, only drawing back for a second when the need to breathe broke them apart before surging right back in.  

Worry filled every corner of his mind until there was hardly room for anything else. He didn’t think he could stand it if Draco were to tell him it had been a mistake. He could hear it already:  _ “It was a mere miscalculation on both of our parts, Potter. We shouldn’t do it again.” _

The months following the war, Harry had been so sure he would never feel anything beyond the blurry numbness and everlasting bitterness. He’d been certain he’d carry the guilt and anger like a cloak around his shoulders for the rest of his life, letting it overshadow everything else.

Then Draco had come, he’d brought back every emotion Harry had thought lost to him and amplified it. If he regretted it, Harry would respect it, even if tore him apart. He wouldn’t ask of him more than Draco was willing to give, they’d go back to the comfortable friendship they’d cultivated over the past few months, because it was better than nothing at all. He wouldn’t burden Draco with his feelings, and he’d hope time would be enough to water them down.

Harry should have known better than to assume he was wanted.

“Harry?” Ron asked, nudging his leg with a socked foot.

Harry blinked, startled. “Yeah?”

“All right?” Hermione asked, a vertical wrinkle between her eyebrows.

He rubbed his bleary eyes, flashing them a tight smile. “Yes. Just didn’t get proper sleep,” he said.

Ron winced. “Nightmares?”

Harry shook his head, chewing on his bottom lip. “Just thinking.”

It wasn’t a lie, really, just a stretched truth.

He caught sight of the small book propped on the couch near Hermione that did not appear to belong in Hogwarts’ library. Its front cover design consisted of a grey background with bold, black letters and a photo of a man in muggle attire. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to it, hoping to derail the conversation.

It seemed to do the trick, for the pinched, worried look on Hermione’s eased, replaced by eagerness as she picked up the book and held it up before him. The black letters read _ A Brief History Of Time, Stephen W. Hawking. _ “It’s a muggle physics book,” she said excitedly.

Ron frowned. “Physics?” he echoed.

Hermione nodded her head fervently. “Yes! It’s a field of science that studies the way the universe behaves, it studies matter—basically the fundamental component of all things—and its motion and behaviour. The author of this book, Stephen Hawking, is well-known Muggle theoretical physicist. His book focuses on his theory of the origin of the universe caused by a black hole at the beginning of time as we know it. It’s  _ brilliant _ —”

Ron turned to Harry for help, still as confused, perhaps even more so, as when he’d asked what physics was.

“—As well as the development and possible fate of the universe. It’s so  _ fascinating _ ,” Hermione continued babbling, seemingly unaware of Harry and Ron not following since the word science. “I think we should incorporate more Muggle knowledge into wizarding schools,” she added, her expression sobering. “Muggle Studies barely scratch on the surface, why shouldn’t wizards, witches and magical folk be informed? Physics and other forms of science are just as fundamental and elemental to Muggles as magic is to us, and their rules apply to us as well.”

Harry, despite his lack of knowledge on the subject, found himself agreeing. “You should propose that once you get a job in the ministry,” he suggested.

Hermione beamed. “Oh, I thought about that as well, in fact, I’ve started preparing a paper I could publish, hopefully even present to the Wizengamot.”

Harry found himself grinning back. “I’m sure you’ll manage it.”

Ron was staring at her with a mixture of awe and pride. “I think so too.”

Hermione blushed, pink colouring her cheeks and nose. “Well, I have to finish my education first, it’ll be years before I can do it, no point in getting excited just yet.” She turned to Harry. “Speaking of which, have you given some thought to what you’ll do once you’ve sat your NEWTs?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “No clue, really,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about Grimmauld Place. I know Sirius left it to me, but I don’t know if I could ever live there, you know?”

He could not imagine himself trapped within those walls, surrounded by the souls of those who once had. He thought that by the time he was done with Hogwarts he would be ready, but it was proving to be a hopeless delusion.

Ron nodded. “Yeah, mate, I get it,” he said. “Too many memories.”

Harry forced a faint smile. “I was thinking, maybe we could redecorate? Turn the house upside down, without messing with its foundation and ancient magic and... I dunno, make it a home for war orphans? It’s a very big place, there are rooms we might not even know of, but could find if we did some research.”

Hermione and Ron’s eyes lit up, sharing a surprised look with each other. “Oh, Harry! That’s such a good idea!” Hermione said. “It’s a lot of work, but I’m sure some people would volunteer. We could set up a schedule for the summer.”

Ron leaned in, clasping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Sirius would have loved this,” he said, sincere and reassuring.

Harry swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I hope so,” he whispered. “I know how much pain it caused him to be stuck there. I know how much hatred that place holds. This is what he would have wanted, I think.”

Hermione smiled warmly. She unfolded her legs from beneath her and got to her feet, plopping down next to Harry on the sofa and leaning her forehead against his shoulder, her book in hand. “Want me to read for you?” she asked, making space for Ron as he joined them.

Harry was grateful that she recognized when he was too overwhelmed to continue.

They spent the rest of the evening cuddled in the sofa, not speaking saved for Hermione’s smooth, hushed voice as she read, the sound of it blending seamlessly with the crackling of the chimney, the faint scratch of their house mates’ quills, and the winds of the winter.

\---

Later that night, Harry chewed on a sandwich Ron had brought from the kitchens while listening to him and Hermione bicker about casting techniques.

Hermione insisted one should always aim before casting, lest risking hitting the wrong target. Ron assured her that for the practiced wizard, a wand is only an extension of one’s arm meant to channel the magic, and that casting  _ as _ one aimed provided efficacy and speed.  

The door of the Common Room creaked as it swung open.

Draco walked in, accompanied by Parkinson, who leaned in to whisper something in his ear before heading in the direction of the dorms. Harry swallowed, drinking in the sight of him. Draco did not follow her, and he began walking in what was undoubtedly Harry’s direction.

As Draco strode towards him, a shadow of hesitation following his steps, the word he’d been looking for all these years dawned on Harry.  _ Disorienting _ , that’s what he was. Whether it was because he wanted to kick his teeth bloody or because he wanted to snog him until they were both gasping for breath, Draco had always disoriented him more than anyone else.

He’d always had that power on him. The strength to make Harry forget about everything around them, his vision zeroed on Draco, his magic pulsing through his fingertips expectantly. He knew just how to get under Harry’s skin.

Hope rose from the vaults he had buried it in.

Instead of regarding Harry, however, Draco turned to Hermione and Ron. “I’d like to speak to both of you privately, if I may,” he said, his accent cut-glass and his shoulders tense.

Harry felt his stomach twist in painful knots as terror filled him, his heart thumping excruciatingly in his chest.

Ron’s hand travelled to his hip, his fingers hovering above his wand, eyes unblinking and wary, watching Draco’s every move. Draco’s eyes followed the movement, flashing with fear, but he did not reach for his own wand.

Hermione looked back and forth between Harry and Draco in silent question, her eyes widening as Harry shook his head helplessly.  

She seemed to come to a decision, clearing her throat. “Whatever you wish to say, Harry can hear, Malfoy,” she said, crossing her arms.

Draco flickered an uncertain glance at Harry before nodding. “Very well.”

Ron snarled before Draco could continue, baring his teeth. “Choose your words  _ wisely _ , Ferret,”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, his hands feeling clammy where they rested on his lap. The air around them was so brittle it threatened to snap. He prayed to whichever cosmic entity was out there that Draco knew what he was doing.

“Draco—” Harry started.

Draco held up a silencing hand, shaking his head. “I wanted to apologize to both of you,” he said, his voice hardened with resolve.

Harry felt as if the wind had been knocked out of his lungs. “ _ I do plan on apologizing to her, if you must know, _ ” Draco had told him during Potions a while back.

This newfound understanding did nothing to calm his nerves.

Draco drew in a deep, shuddering breath before continuing. “I have wronged you beyond words. I was ignorant, hateful and terrible to you.” He looked at Hermione, his frame trembled slightly. “I am sorry for what happened to you in my home, for each time I called you… that word,” he clenched his jaw like it sickened him. “It was inexcusable… Weasley, I’m sorry for the way I treated you, I’m—I’m sorry about your brothers. I know I can never take all I’ve done to you back and that there are many things I still need to learn, and even more that I need to unlearn, and while I do not deserve or expect it, I ask for your forgiveness.” Draco’s eyes were rimmed with tears by the time he was done, he was the depiction of vulnerability, and it was all Harry could do not to comfort him.

Dread and doubt assailed Harry as he watched Hermione and Ron, their throats working but no sound coming out. He knew he could never ask it from them, not after all the pain Draco had caused them, but he hoped they could find it within themselves to forgive him.

There was something unsettling about it, seeing Draco Malfoy, someone Harry had considered a boy of imperious, selfish will for years with his head slightly bowed, speaking with absolute candour as he asked for forgiveness he did not deem himself worthy of.

He knew the lesson had come at a high price, Draco had lost all that he’d thought made him valuable—his status, his father, his pride in his name and purity—but instead of allowing the loss to consume him, he was choosing to cleanse himself of his bigotry and ignorance.

He had a long, undoubtedly ruthless way to go. It would not be easy. But Harry would stand by him for as long as Draco would let him.

Hermione was the first to break the silence. “I forgive you.” Draco’s head shot up, staring at her like he had not expected it. “But I want you to know I forgive you for my own peace, not because you deserve it. Not yet, at least, not until you prove otherwise,” she said, her voice cracking around the edges. “I forgive you because I trust Harry, and he seems to have forgiven you as well.”

Harry swallowed, his heart leapt to his throat. “I have,” he said hoarsely. Their eyes locked as Draco finally peered at him, looking at Harry like he was something shatteringly precious.

“Has he apologized to you?” Ron asked him, his face set like a carved mask.  

“He has,” Harry answered, unable to look away from the cloudy, grey eyes that he’d spent so long seeking, knowing his expression mirrored Draco’s.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” Ron admitted. “But I appreciate your apology,”

Harry could breathe again.

It felt like he’d defied gravity, but Draco turned back to Ron and Hermione, recapturing himself with clear difficulty. “Thank you, both of you. I—goodnight,” he said.

Hermione gave a curt nod. Draco lingered a few leisurely seconds before turning on his heel.

A sense of relief and pride settled in Harry’s spirit as he watched Draco’s retreating back.

Hermione linked one arm with Ron’s, gesturing to the spot where Draco had been with the other. “Go after him,” she said with a small smile.

Harry was on his feet before she’d finished.

\-----

Harry found him sitting on his bed, unlacing his shoes.

Draco glanced at him and sighed tiredly. “Don’t just stand there,” he muttered.

Harry felt sweat break in the back of his head as he closed the door behind him. “Can I sit?” he asked.

Draco moved to make space for him as he slipped off his boots and pushed them under the bed. “If you must.”

Harry crossed the room and sat down on the bed. It felt like walking—or sitting, rather—on eggshells. He wanted to reach out, let his fingers slip into the nape of Draco’s neck, his thumb caressing his jaw.

“Thank you, for what you did,” he said instead, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

A muscle clenched in Draco’s jaw, his unease apparent. “I didn’t do it for you.”

Harry bit his lip. “I know.”

Draco fiddled with the tassel trims of his bed curtains. “You didn’t have to do that, you know. Lie to them, tell them you’ve forgiven me,” he said tightly, staring stubbornly at the piece of fabric.

Harry frowned. “I didn’t,” he said quickly. He angled his body towards Draco, folding a leg on the bed. “I wasn’t sure I ever would, you know? But what is mine to forgive, I have.”

Draco chuckled coldly, the sound of it hollow and brittle. “You honestly expect me to believe that? That after everything, after all I’ve  _ done _ , you’re willing to forgive me?”

“You’ve apologized, you’ve changed,” he said softly, scooting closer. “I reckon you have things to forgive as well.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Such as? You did save my life, and everyone else’s, for that matter,” he snapped.

“After I almost killed you,” Harry said. Draco inhaled sharply, his hand coming up to brush his chest. “You saved my life too. At the manor, you knew it was me.”

Draco scoffed, but there was no bite to it. “ _ Of course _ I did,” he said. “I’d know that big head of yours anywhere,” he added, finally,  _ finally _ looking at Harry, the corners of his mouth perking up.

The gesture, small as it was, steadied him. “If you knew, then why didn’t you turn me in? It would have been easy. You could have avoided the battle. You could have assured your family a good position with Voldemort. Why didn’t you?”

Draco didn’t answer him for a while, and Harry feared he had overstepped his boundaries, set them back dozens of steps. “During the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, when I saw you flying away from a bloody dragon, I realized that while you were infuriating, annoying, arrogant—"

Harry bristled, indignant. “ _ Hey _ !”

“—I didn’t want you to die.” Draco’s smile was discreet and small, one you could only notice if you knew where to look for it. Harry wanted him so much. “For whatever reason, be it good or bad, you mattered to me. And when I saw you at the Manor, I knew that you were the only person who would be able to rid us of  _ him _ ,” he spat out the last word as if it burned his throat.

A revelation struck him, flooding him with relief. That perhaps Draco’s hesitation hadn’t been regret, but merely self-preservation. That he was just as scared of cocking this up as Harry was.  

Emboldened, Harry slid his fingers across the bed until they rested near Draco’s stretched hand. Draco looked down, and Harry could see him trying and failing to suppress a smile as he rotated his hand so their palms could touch loosely, their fingertips brushing against each other. It could barely count as hand-holding, but somehow felt more intimate, like a slow, shy exploration.

“Do you remember when you came back for me? In the Fiendfyre?” Draco asked quietly, his eyes fixed on their fingers.

Harry did. He did so with a striking clarity. He recalled looking back and seeing Draco surrounded by vicious flames. He remembered how for one moment, he forgot his fear until he could no longer feel the heat consuming him, until the world stilled and the screams of agony around him were no more. He remembered reaching for him and the vice grip of Draco’s hand igniting his senses back to life.

Harry would never forget.

He cleared his throat. “I do,” he said.

“Why did  _ you _ do it?”

“I always felt so old, you know?” Draco frowned, but didn’t interrupt him. “I never had the chance to be a kid at my aunt and uncle’s and then when I discovered I was a wizard, Voldemort tried to kill me for the next seven years.” Draco’s thumb began stroking Harry’s own. “I always had the burden of a hundred-year-old on my back. But when I saw you, I was filled with this… childish competitiveness to… outdo you. To prove myself to you.” Harry chuckled, his voice barely above a whisper. “I guess what I’m trying to say, for those moments, even if they weren’t exactly pleasant, I was young. You made me feel young.”

Draco’s touches stilled. He searched Harry’s face uncertainly. “Harry?” he asked, his grey eyes falling to Harry’s lips.

Harry sucked in a breath, leaning in. “Yeah?”

“Why did you kiss me?”

He swallowed, knowing Draco needed to hear this as much as he needed to say it. “Because I want you. Because I’ve wanted you for months.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “I want you, too.” 

And for now, it was enough.

There was no hesitation this time. Harry surged and captured Draco’s lips in a hungry, deep kiss. Draco made a choking noise, his hands coming up to fist Harry’s robes and pull him closer until there was no space for doubt.

It was good, it was so unbelievably good. The drag of Draco’s tongue against his own, the feel of his skin as Harry’s palm came up to cradle his neck, his other hand resting on Draco’s waist. Draco pulled back, his pupils blown wide, placing his hand in the centre of Harry’s chest and pushing.

Harry frowned, dizzy with desire, but he scooted further back into the bed. Draco linked his leg with Harry’s and rolled over, straddling his lap, his thighs hugging Harry’s hips.

“Good?” he breathed.

Harry stifled a groan, cradling Draco by the hips. “Yeah.”

Draco closed the distance between them, resuming the kiss with frantic vigour, their bodies flush against each other through the layers of clothing. Harry’s hand slipped down to cup Draco’s arse, swallowing the moan that came out his mouth, the sound shooting straight to his groin. He tore his mouth away, fingers slipping into the fine, soft blonde hair and tugging, exposing the milky skin of Draco’s throat. Harry latched his mouth into the space right beneath his jaw, sucking the skin into his mouth, eliciting small noises from Draco, his hips jerking.

A low sound left him as he felt Draco’s erection grind against his. He jutted his hips upwards, rubbing their cocks together with every roll, drunk on the desperate, whining noises that Draco made as he writhed against Harry, bucking into him desperately. Harry pumped his hips faster, finding Draco’s mouth again, their kisses messy and wet.

It all came to an end far too soon, their pace stuttered. Harry felt his bollocks draw up tight against his body as he came in long spurts, feeling Draco’s cock jerking against his.

Harry felt around the bed for his wand and cast a swift cleaning charm on them once he found it, sighing as the cooling magic swept his sweaty skin. Draco lifted his head from Harry’s shoulder and they stared at each other, their breath coming in ragged pants.

He traced the outline of Draco’s mouth with his finger, leaning in to plant a quick, tender kiss on his cupid’s bow.

Draco’s nose wrinkled. “You big sap,” he mocked, but the soft expression he regarded Harry with betrayed the words coming out of his mouth.

Harry grinned, tightening his hold on Draco. “You like it,” he said.

He wasn’t sure what this was, other than something hanging on fragile threads, suspended in a world they’d created for themselves, but those strings might just strengthen, little by little.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO! I have Ko-Fi page, so if you're able to and wish to, I'd love a coffee! https://ko-fi.com/J3J1EIQQ

**Author's Note:**

> Review & Comment


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